


looking for heaven

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Last Holiday AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: Once that’s done, he’s fucking off to Europe. Paris maybe, or a tour of the Mediterranean. Skiing in the Alps if he’s really feeling the season.If Sylvain’s going to die, he’s going to die happy, and hopefully in the arms of someone hot. He deserves at least that much.Faced with a sudden diagnosis of brain cancer, Sylvain decides to take one final vacation to Europe and live out his remaining days careless and carefree. Fate, however, has other plans, and he runs into a childhood friend he thought he'd never see again. Inspired by Last Holiday.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 127
Collections: Sylvix Advent Calendar





	looking for heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pillowboat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillowboat/gifts).



> Thank you to [@pillowboat](https://twitter.com/pillowboat) for having a galaxy brain and coming up with this idea and for working with me on this!! Thank you also to [Elliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes) for holding my hand through this!
> 
> No knowledge of Last Holiday (2006) required. Please forgive my questionable knowledge of Europe.

Sylvain’s life comes to a screeching halt as it collides with his doctor’s overly-serious monotone.

Brain tumor. Terminal. He should take care with any headaches going forward. Dr. Li is so very, very sorry, and she hopes Sylvain will take his remaining time to set his affairs in order.

Sylvain barks out a laugh at that.

There’s nothing to “set in order”. There’s barely even anyone to say goodbye to.

Sylvain never reached any lofty heights, so the usual bullshit about having lived a good life doesn’t apply. Like the rest of the rat race, he works the 9 to 5 grind, goes out drinking after work, and avoids calls from his parents on the weekends. He floats in and out from day to day, coasting along, seeing how many beds he can hit. He’s only gotten as far as he has because he pulled winning numbers in the lottery of birth.

Maybe that’s why this is happening. He’s being smote with brain cancer as punishment for who he is. It was inevitable—he was born with poison, bred with it, raised to let it fester—and the world decided it’s had enough.

Or maybe Sylvain angered some god he doesn’t believe in, and this is his penance. Who can say?

What Sylvain does know is this: he’s 28, it’s a bright, sunny December 10th, and he’s just been told he only has a couple months left to live. If he’s really unlucky—or lucky, maybe, depending on who you ask, not that Sylvain would _ever_ ask Miklan—he might not even see New Years.

There’s really only one thing left for him. Vacation time, baby. He’s going to head over now from his doctor’s office to the bank and liquidate his assets, and then he’s home free.

He has to beat his family to the punch. This is his only chance. They’ll wring him for every last cent otherwise; no use saving what’s already lost, after all.

Once that’s done, he’s fucking off to Europe. Paris maybe, or a tour of the Mediterranean. Skiing in the Alps if he’s really feeling the season.

If Sylvain’s going to die, he’s going to die happy, and hopefully in the arms of someone hot. He deserves at least that much.

—

Last-minute plane tickets to Bern cost an arm and a leg, but it makes no difference to Sylvain. He would have splurged for first class if it weren’t sold out. Go big or go home, and he’s not going home except in the coffin waiting for him at the end of this trip.

Traveling itself is unremarkable: eight boring hours from JFK to Munich, a short layover, and two more to the Swiss capital. The flights pass in a blur of leg cramps and shitty 2000s sitcoms.

By the time he finally lands, he’s glad to be back on earth. Too many hours in a dark, enclosed cabin and he’s five again, trapped in their unheated garage in the dead of winter, no one around to hear him beg. Brain cancer didn’t manage to wipe out any memories. What’s it even good for?

Sylvain wobbles unevenly down the aisle, irritable and desperate for fresh air, stuck behind an American family of five. From the pained looks of everyone around him, he’s not the only one who wants out. It takes a day and an age to get to the front, but he manages a weak grin to the crew as he exits.

He dozes in the taxi to the hotel. Tension drops from his shoulders the further he gets from the airport. He only notices that he’s supposed to get out when the driver coughs, loud and annoyed, pointing to the entrance.

Inside, the concierge gives Sylvain’s disheveled appearance a once-over—which, hey, everyone looks like this after a day of flying, even when they’re not weeks from death—but his card doesn’t bounce, so he’s given a key and sent on his way. The room itself is nice, nicer than Sylvain needs. It has that veneer of wealth Sylvain knows so well. The view is picturesque, pointed north toward the city center, framed with rich, navy curtains. The king bed is overwhelmed by luxurious, fluffy pillows. Under the window, there’s a stocked mini-fridge. The bathroom has a tub with jacuzzi jets.

Exactly what Sylvain paid for, ridiculous excess and all. He doesn’t deserve the comfort, but he sure as fuck is taking it anyway.

Sylvain rolls his suitcase into a corner and sinks into the armchair beside the windows. A bath and a drink sound like heaven.

He takes the rest of the afternoon to wash up and get buzzed on a bottle of red wine and room service. He tips the bellhop 200€ and a wink, but he doesn’t put his heart into it. Sylvain can see the imprint of a wedding band beneath the uniform gloves, and middle-aged and balding isn’t what he’s looking for in a send-off.

He flicks through channels on the television as he eats, lounging in a bathrobe and nothing else. The words pass from one ear to the other as he cycles through death-knell news and falsely-sweet seasonal films. Neither is appealing. Sylvain’s had his whole life to dread the future, and capitalism’s lies about how to buy happiness have always tasted like an acrid sludge. The sugar-coated hope of the latter sets derision and jealousy roiling in his gut, and Sylvain quickly gives up and resigns himself to eat in silence. The wine and cheese are delicious. They’re not good enough to cover the resentment sitting sour in the pit of his stomach.

At half past six, it’s dark enough for Sylvain to hit the bar scene. He’s not drunk, and he needs to correct that. It’s not as though he came here to lie on a bed until he’s dead—at least, not in the unsexy way. He could have done that at home. There’s a whole host of things to explore since he’s never been to Bern before, even if, admittedly, more of them will be open in the morning.

He pulls on his best pair of dark-wash jeans and a navy dress shirt, leaving the top two buttons open. Enough to be noticed, but not so gaudy as to call himself out as a tourist. He’s going out for a good time and he needs to look the part. He fluffs his hair—one, two, three times—and checks himself in the mirror before throwing on his wool coat and heading down. If he’s lucky, he’ll find a good lay to bring back. If he’s not, maybe he’ll at least pick someone who’s decent.

Sylvain’s a little too preoccupied figuring out where he should go to pay attention to where he’s currently going, and his shoulder clips a smaller person as he heads across the lobby.

“Watch it!” comes a scathing voice, sharp and just shy of nasal.

Sylvain blinks, looking up from his phone to see a dark-haired man scowling up at him, a sneer painted on his lips. He’s all sharp edges and exaggerated lines, dressed in a leather jacket and a black turtleneck. Even though he’s, objectively, not tall, his legs stretch on for days in tight-fitting, black jeans and black leather boots. He’s hot, even with the bitchy, wet-cat look. There’s something weirdly familiar in the way he stands, arms crossed and back ramrod straight.

“Whoa, sorry! Didn’t see you.” Sylvain takes another look, up and down, at the man still glaring hard enough to melt a hole in his skull. “And I’m sorry I missed you. It would have been a real shame not to appreciate someone as good-looking as you.”

The man’s eye twitches, but Sylvain can see a hint of pink rise in his cheeks. “Disgusting. Does that line ever work for you?”

“Not really,” Sylvain says, shrugging, “but I mean, baby, you’re just taking my words away.”

The man scoffs, but there’s no denying the pretty flush that crawls its way up his neck. Sylvain’s got his interest. “This is a waste of my time. Take your eyes off your fucking phone when you’re walking.”

He moves to shove past Sylvain, and Sylvain’s eyes catch on his earrings: small, silver daggers, hilts set with amethysts. Sylvain knows those earrings. Suddenly, it all makes sense—why this man is so rude, why he’s so familiar, why Sylvain was instantly attracted to him.

Before the man can escape, Sylvain catches his arm and gapes at him.

“Felix? Felix Fraldarius?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Felix demands. He freezes as his brain catches up with what Sylvain’s just said. “Wait—who the fuck are you? How do you know my name?”

“Holy shit, it is you.”

Disappointment sinks down Sylvain’s spine. Felix doesn’t recognize him. Sylvain can’t really blame him; it’s been over eleven years, and Sylvain hadn’t recognized Felix immediately either.

Felix looks different from the teenager of Sylvain’s memories, but also so much the same. Felix’s hair used to be longer, his messy bun replaced with a messy ponytail. His earrings are still lopsided from when he pitched a fit at thirteen and had his brother pierce them for him. The earrings themselves are gifts Sylvain gave him just weeks before Sylvain’s family moved to Long Island. They suit Felix better now than they did as a teen, elegant and austere, adding to his dark aesthetic. Sylvain stops himself from craning his head to check out Felix’s ass.

Felix clicks his tongue, clearly waiting for an answer. “Well?”

Sylvain’s heart hammers in his chest. What does he say? There are a thousand different thoughts rattling around in his head—the goodbyes he never said, the moments they didn’t have, the times he tried to call Felix in the intervening years. He swallows thickly, his words tangled in the snare of a dozen emotions.

“If you have nothing to say to me, _stalker_ —”

Felix rips his arm back, but Sylvain scrambles to head him off. “Wait, no—Felix, it’s me! It’s me. It’s Sylvain, Sylvain Gautier.”

At the sound of Sylvain’s name, Felix’s eyes widen and he pauses in his tracks, watching Sylvain like a deer caught in headlights. Sylvain takes it as his cue to continue.

“I swear, I’m not stalking you, I’m just here on…”

Sylvain trails off, the reason for his vacation hitting him. He’d forgotten, faced with the sheer joy of having run into the childhood friend he missed the most. It’s not the moment to think about that, not while he has Felix in front of him.

“I’m just here on vacation, pure coincidence,” Sylvain says. He forces out a laugh, aiming for relieved and landing somewhere near awkward. “I never thought I’d see you again. I thought I’d lost you. It’s been years.” He relaxes and grins at Felix, letting a little of his usual mask slip. Felix always could see through it anyway. “But, man, you know, I missed you.”

Felix continues staring at Sylvain, but his posture is guarded. The distrust makes Sylvain uneasy, and he smiles blithely.

Felix finally opens his mouth to speak. “You think I—”

“Hey, Felix!”

The call from over Sylvain’s shoulder makes them both jump. The voice rings a bell—probably Glenn, his brain supplies—but before Sylvain can so much as blink, Felix turns on his heel and starts speed-walking toward the hotel’s entrance.

Sylvain’s feet move automatically, and he chases Felix out onto the street. They head into the cold and down a hill, Felix racing ahead with his hands jammed into his pockets.

“Fine, Felix! Be that way!” Glenn’s voice rings out behind them, annoyed and amused, filled with exasperated, brotherly affection. It’s even kinder than Sylvain remembers.

He doesn’t let himself think about how long it had taken to warm up to Glenn as children, or how Glenn had always been more like a sibling than his own brother. He has to keep sight of Felix. That’s here, that’s now, and that’s Felix turning the corner and about to give Sylvain the slip. The all-black ensemble and dark hair do Sylvain no favors, and the heavy twilight only makes Felix harder to spot. Sylvain can barely keep up, but his legs churn below him and he stays a handful of steps behind.

Felix comes to a stop several minutes later and a handful of streets away. He rounds on Sylvain and crosses his arms. It’s with valiant effort that Sylvain keeps his breathing even and not at all winded. The fact that he’s at all tired has to be his rapidly deteriorating health catching up with him and not the fact that he only goes to the gym for vanity reasons.

“You’re still here,” Felix says, eyeing Sylvain critically.

“Yep! Can’t shake me. Still as annoying as a bur.”

Felix clicks his tongue. “I can see that.”

“Aw, come on.” Sylvain throws open his arms. “Who knows if I’ll ever get another chance to catch up with you? I gotta make the best of this.”

It’s truer than Sylvain is willing to admit, but Felix doesn’t need to know that.

The corner of Felix’s lips twitches. “You haven’t changed at all. Still so melodramatic.”

Sylvain rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and stretches his arms above his head. “Nope, I like to stay on an even keel.”

Felix jerks his head. “Fine, then. If you’re going to insist on catching up or whatever other sentimental garbage, I’ll humor you.” He sends Sylvain a sharp grin. “You’re paying for dinner.”

Sylvain had been planning on that anyway. The edges of his smile soften and he lets out of a chuckle. “Sure thing, Felix.” He relishes the feeling of Felix’s name on his tongue. It’s been far too long since he’s said any word that beautiful. “Lead the way.”

—

They end up in a small, tucked-away steakhouse. It’s ancient on the outside and decadent on the inside, formal and filled with mood lighting. They’re judged for how they’re dressed, notably casual next to the tables of suits and fine gowns, but they get seated with little more than a sneer. A waiter leads them to a small table at the back, hidden and intimate enough that Sylvain could easily reach out to caress Felix’s cheek or play with his hair with no one else the wiser. The part of him that never stopped being sixteen and Felix’s childhood friend imagines that he’s allowed to.

Felix squints down at the menu, scrunching his nose evaluating the cuts of meat. He has the same manic glimmer in his eyes that Sylvain remembers. It’s incredibly endearing. Sylvain could almost forgo eating just to watch Felix think about meat, but he’s been subjected to too much airplane food in the past 24 hours to do that. As it is, he’d gladly order the entire menu for Felix. Not like he has anything better to do with his money.

“I’m not on the menu,” Felix says without looking up.

Sylvain’s grin widens. “You sure? You definitely look good enough to eat.”

Felix scoffs. “You really haven’t changed at all, not even your terrible pick-up lines.” Felix’s gaze flicks up, and he stares, dead-eyed and unimpressed, at Sylvain. “You don’t need to lie to me. I’m already here on your ridiculous dinner catch-up date.”

“What can I say? It’s true. I’m a connoisseur of beauty and I’ve got it right in front of me.”

Sylvain lets his eyes wander down the curve of Felix’s neck. Felix turns red almost immediately, and he sputters out, “Fuck off.”

Good to know that Felix is still as easy to rile up as ever. And still adorable when he’s flushed.

He lets Felix stew, smiling serenely. A waiter swoops in to take their orders, breaking the moment. Sylvain valiantly does not snicker as Felix orders a full rack of lamb ribs and a filet mignon for himself. Sylvain requests a much more manageable sirloin steak.

There’s a brief, uncomfortable lull after their waiter bows and leaves.

“So, how are Dimitri and Ingrid?” Sylvain says, just to say something. He’s probably probing some hornet’s nest or other, but the silence is going to kill him before the cancer does, so he’ll take being stung.

Felix grimaces, but fondly, in response and Sylvain has to repress a laugh. He really missed Felix’s weird, grumpy expressiveness.

“Fine. Around, unlike you,” he grunts, “but not here.”

Sylvain barely holds back a wince. Felix isn’t wrong, but in Sylvain’s defense, moving away and cutting off contact hadn’t been his choice. They’d decided _as a family_ —read, Sylvain’s father dictated—that they needed to leave and re-establish themselves as far away as possible from Miklan’s scandals. Sylvain hadn’t gotten a say in the matter.

“Just you and Glenn?”

Felix snorts. “I wish. This trip is my old man’s idea of family bonding—putter around his favorite European tourist traps and look at a bunch of Christmas lights. No reason we couldn’t have done that in Virginia, but Glenn decided he wanted to come too, so I couldn’t get out of it.” He cracks a smirk. “They said I had to fly with them to Europe, not that I had to stay with them once we got here. Not like either of them actually planned anything beyond booking the hotels.”

Sylvain tilts his head. “Family trip but no Dimitri?”

“Can’t leave D.C., something about work.” Felix jerks a shoulder. “Besides, Dimitri’s not actually family. He has his uncle and cousins, and he’s said repeatedly that he should visit them more.”

He says it neutrally, like his usage of Dimitri’s name is mundane and normal. Maybe it is nowadays. Once upon a time, it would have been profound. Last Sylvain remembers, Felix was loudly calling Dimitri a boar and taking offense when no one else followed his lead. Sylvain never did figure out why that started. More importantly, all these years later, he doesn’t know why it stopped. He missed a lot.

His chest aches with something that’s a little bit too much like loneliness—not that Sylvain has ever been alone or lonely—and hearing Dimitri’s name from Felix twists the knife the tiniest bit more. He shoves the feeling down and beams. His smile is taut around the edges.

“Wow, you’re using his name. I never thought I’d see the day. Look at you, all grown up and mature.” Sylvain wipes away a fake tear. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Oh shut up,” Felix says without heat, “I’m not fourteen anymore. Dimitri got better once he finally started listening to people and going to therapy.”

“Good for him.”

Sylvain can’t quite manage to school the edge out of his voice, but he means it. It’s good that Dimitri went to therapy. He was never quite the same after that fateful ski trip the Blaiddyd and Fraldarius families took to Colorado where his father snapped his neck.

“I suppose. He’s overworking himself now. The old man and Glenn wanted him to come along so he could take a break.”

Sylvain can hear the omission in Felix’s voice, the fact that he’d wanted Dimitri to come along as well, but he doesn’t call him on it. He doesn’t want to, anyway, with how jealousy rises like bile in his throat.

It’s ridiculous to feel left out of the tragedy. Skiing was a tradition between those families. It wasn’t Dimitri’s fault that Sylvain wasn’t with them. It definitely isn’t Dimitri’s fault that Sylvain has been away for so many years since. Sylvain has no right to be upset.

“He was always wound a bit tight. You and Ingrid, too.”

“You’re just too laid-back,” Felix retorts. “You never take anything seriously.”

Sylvain grins easily. “What’s the point if you can’t enjoy life?” Even if there’s not a lot of life left to live. But Sylvain doesn’t need to think about that right now.

“Some of us want to make something of ourselves.”

“Oh? How’s that going?”

“Fine. I finished my Master’s in medieval studies last year.”

“So… swords.”

“Yes, swords.” Felix rolls his eyes.

Sylvain chuckles. “You keep saying that I haven’t changed, but you’re the same in a lot of ways, too. Let me guess, you’re still doing Taekwondo?”

Felix clicks his tongue and looks away, color rising in his cheeks. It’s more than enough of an answer, but Sylvain waits for Felix to speak anyway.

“Yes,” Felix finally says, begrudging. “I also started Krav Maga in college because Glenn bought me classes.” His voice drops to a mortified whisper. “He made me take yoga with him as a trade, the bastard.”

Sylvain does not think about Felix trying out the more athletic yoga poses. Not at all. He catches the tension in Felix’s posture. “Because of his shoulder injury?”

“He pretends it’s fine, but I know it bothers him, especially when the weather’s bad.”

Sylvain wouldn’t know anything about brothers pretending to be fine rather than taking out their anger, but he also wouldn’t know anything about brothers doing things for each other out of the kindness of their hearts. “He’s lucky he has you.”

Felix snorts. “Damn straight.”

Sylvain studies the smirk on Felix’s lips. It’s gotten sharper over time, but it’s lost the harsh, cruel edge, and it’s even more devastatingly attractive than Sylvain remembers. Seeing it always felt like being let in on an inside joke.

“I was lucky I had you, too, back then. I just didn’t realize how much.”

The words are out before Sylvain can stop himself. Suddenly, the temperature in the restaurant is boiling. He drops his eyes to hands. The back of his neck gets hot. Felix always made it too easy to be honest. The truth is as refreshing as it is mortifying.

Something in the air between them shifts, and Felix clears his throat.

“Sure, whatever.”

Before either of them can say more, dinner arrives. Felix stares down at his two plates of meat, unable to decide which to dig into first. He settles on the filet and cuts himself an obnoxiously large bite. It’s as gross as it is familiar, and fondness rises in Sylvain’s chest as Felix chews. Felix and Ingrid were always such disgusting eaters growing up. He’s ruining the ambiance of the restaurant, and Sylvain’s here for it.

“Eat your damn steak,” Felix says around his food. “I’m still not on the menu.”

Feeling bold, Sylvain shifts his chair closer to Felix and crosses his legs so that his ankle is touching Felix’s. Felix doesn’t move away—Sylvain swears he feels Felix pressing into the touch, but he knows that’s only delusion—and a thrill runs up Sylvain’s spine at the prolonged contact. Neither of them comment on it.

Around two-thirds of the way through the food, Felix is staring, gaze heavy and meaningful. Sylvain usually enjoys the attention, but not when it feels like he’s having his brain x-rayed. He looks up. “Something on my face?”

Felix glances away. “No.”

“Are you sure? You were staring.”

Felix clicks his tongue. “I said no.”

Sylvain blinks but goes back to his food. Within moments he can feel Felix’s gaze piercing him again.

“You’re definitely staring. It’s okay, Felix, you can say what you need to. I won’t judge.”

No matter how much time has passed, Sylvain can always promise that. Well, as long as he’s alive to keep it.

Felix fights himself for a long moment before exhaling. It’s incredibly cute. Sylvain wishes he could say it out loud without risking Felix getting up and leaving.

“Take me back to your room later,” Felix says imperiously.

Sylvain chokes on his steak. Whatever he’d been expecting Felix to say, it hadn’t been that.

Sylvain speaks once he manages to swallow his food and clear his throat with some water. “Hey… Felix. Buddy. You do know what that means?”

Felix scoffs. “I’m not a virgin.”

Sylvain chokes again, this time on air. One, he hadn’t needed or wanted to know that, and two—shit, Felix is going to kill him so fast the brain tumor doesn’t even have a chance. He gapes, wide-eyed. Felix looks coolly back.

Okay, they’re really doing this.

Felix breaks eye contact first. “Just fucking tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No—no! That’s not it at all.” Sylvain swallows. “Please, come back with me.”

Felix squints at Sylvain, weighing the truth of his words. They pass, because Felix hums and turns back to his food, a tiny smile dancing at the corner of his mouth.

Sylvain can’t get through the rest of dinner fast enough.

—

They’re barely through the door of the hotel room before Felix has Sylvain up against the wall, his hands fighting Sylvain’s shirt and his mouth hot and biting at Sylvain’s neck.

The night is going exactly as Sylvain wanted when he first headed out. Hot person, even hotter sex. He never expected those plans to include Felix, but Sylvain isn’t going to complain. Having Felix, even once, is the best of all possible worlds. Anyone else would have paled in comparison.

Maybe this is an olive branch from the gods trying to tell him to die. He’ll gladly take it. It’s more than he deserves.

Felix in his arms is one good memory to take with him to the grave.

—

When Sylvain wakes the next morning, the bed beside him is empty and the sheets are already cool.

In retrospect, it’s silly to expect Felix to stay. He’s on vacation with his family, not Sylvain. It still sucks to be on this side of waking up alone.

It shouldn’t matter. He went looking for no-strings-attached fun and he got that, with the bonus of seeing an old friend. So on to the next one. He’ll spend today and tomorrow checking out the city, and then he’s out. There’s a whole lot of Europe left and not much time to see it.

Sylvain’s phone vibrates from the nightstand. He picks it up, blinking blearily at the time. 10:04 am local. 4:04 am back in New York. Who the fuck is texting him at four in the morning?

> **Unknown Number** : get a sleep aid for your snoring

Sylvain stares at the message.

> **Me** : felix?

A reply comes back fifteen minutes later, after Sylvain has turned on the TV to force himself to stop waiting for a typing bubble to appear.

> **Unknown Number** : yes

He chokes out a laugh, even as his heart jumps to his throat. Leave it to Felix to not even say good morning.

He fixes Felix’s contact.

> **Me** : how did you get my number?
> 
> **Felix** : your face
> 
> **Me** : sorry?
> 
> **Felix** : the facial recognition unlock
> 
> **Felix** : it worked even though you were asleep
> 
> **Felix** : [Attached Image]

Sylvain cringes at the unflattering picture of himself, sprawled on his half of the bed, mouth gaping. He’s not even that deep a sleeper. He’s glad none of his other one night stands ever managed to wake before he did. Curse Felix for being a morning person.

> **Me** : delete that
> 
> **Me** : what are you up to today?
> 
> **Me** : still looking to ditch your family?
> 
> **Felix** : out with glenn
> 
> **Me** : okay, say hi for me

Felix doesn’t reply back, and another fifteen minutes later, Sylvain gives up and heads into the bathroom. He can’t afford to let the day slip away from him, just staring at his phone. He’s not getting any further from death.

Sylvain only pauses as he tugs the hotel room door shut behind him.

> **Me** : also, i don’t snore

When he checks their messages again on his way to Kunstmuseum Bern, Felix has left him on read. He rolls his eyes. Typical.

—

It’s long past sunset by the time Sylvain returns to the hotel. The evening chill is starting to make its home in his bones. He relaxes into the warmth of the lobby.

He takes his phone out for what has to be the thousandth time today. He swipes away the string of messages from his mother. Still nothing.

Sylvain failed to walk through a single gallery without thinking about Felix. Even worse were lunch and dinner, when he had his phone in his hands as he ate. He should have picked someone up at the bar. He doesn’t know why he didn’t. The tall brunette by the front window checked him out as he passed, but he barely had the energy to return the look.

What’s wrong with him? The desperation coming off him is strong enough that he reeks of it. He should be running the other way, taking whatever fun he has left in him, liberated by the fact that he’s finally free of obligation. He can indulge in all of life’s vices and excesses. He only has so long until the devil comes to claim him. Instead, he’s sulking about Felix being Felix.

Felix, childhood friend, human cat, eternal bitch. Why the fuck hasn’t he texted? Why is he still like this, all these years later? The rose-tinted glasses cracked faster than Sylvain thought possible.

Sylvain makes his way up to his room and drops onto the bed. He takes out his phone again. 11:17 pm. Four minutes from the last time he looked. He’s at 15% and he should find his charger. Still no notification bubble.

Fuck it.

> **Me** : hope you had a good day
> 
> **Me** : idk how much longer i’ll be in bern, lmk if you’d like to hang out
> 
> **Me** : you know where my room is ;)

He stares at it for a few minutes, but he’s denied even the satisfaction of read receipts. Sylvain gets up and shoves his charger into his phone before heading into the bathroom to wash up.

It’s over three hours later when he stops checking for messages and finally falls asleep.

—

The night passes uneasily and Sylvain wakes as the sun is crossing the horizon. He blinks against the morning brightness of the room and rolls onto his side to gaze out at the other half of the bed, as empty as the morning before.

He really should have paid more attention to the brunette from the bar.

Sylvain closes his eyes. Go back to sleep. Don’t reach for your phone. There’s only disappointment waiting for you there.

He lasts maybe five minutes.

The disappointment doesn’t come. At least, not in the way Sylvain expects.

> **Felix** : out late, just saw this
> 
> **Felix** : can’t, going to zurich
> 
> **Felix** : you should visit D.C.
> 
> **Felix** : dimitri and ingrid will want to see you

Irritation fights with fondness in Sylvain’s gut. Felix responded. He still types the way Sylvain remembers, terse and almost callous. The familiarity makes Sylvain’s chest flutter. He also didn’t tell Sylvain that he would only be in Bern for one more day. Just as they’re getting the chance to reconnect, they may never see each other again.

It’s not Felix’s fault. He knows nothing about Sylvain’s illness. For Felix, there’s nothing strange about a temporary goodbye. Not so for Sylvain. Maybe, in another world, Sylvain is healthy and fair, he takes this parting for what it is, and he gets to see Felix again state-side.

Sure, and maybe pigs fly.

Sylvain has always been exactly as awful as anyone has ever thought him—unloveable, selfish, cold-hearted. He’s living up to those words again now, desperate to claw onto Felix and not let go. Irrationally betrayed by the idea of parting ways.

Sylvain blinks and looks up, unseeing, at his reflection in the TV.

What is he doing? Getting attached? Why? Sure, it’s Felix, but Sylvain trying to take things for himself has never ended well. Not for Sylvain, not for anyone else. Possessiveness and jealousy go hand in hand, and they only serve to breed resentment. Even worse is knowing he’ll die soon and choosing attachment anyway.

Sylvain wants to see Felix anyway.

He’s on this trip to live out his last days, debauched and hedonistic, to enjoy life to the fullest. Meaningless sex with strangers and fine wines can take him most of the way there. If he hadn’t run into Felix again, Sylvain would have been glad to have that be the way to go.

But he’ll go to the grave with regrets if he lets this be his final goodbye to Felix.

He looks over at his suitcase, sitting on the ground with his clothes half unpacked. It would take at most half an hour to clean up and check out.

It’s not like he really has anything better to do. Even if he doesn’t go, he’s still counting down the days to his death.

Sylvain closes his messages and opens the browser to search for tickets to Zürich.

—

It takes longer than Sylvain wants to cancel the extra day of his reservation at the hotel. He ends up paying for the vacated room, because why the fuck not? He has the cash to burn.

The hour on the train passes with Sylvain once again manically checking his phone. He doesn’t say anything new to Felix. Unsurprisingly, Felix doesn’t text either.

The dread in Sylvain’s gut builds. He’s in over his head. What’s he going to do? What’s he supposed to say? “Hi, I followed you to another city.” That’ll go over well. It definitely doesn’t exacerbate Felix’s initial accusation of Sylvain being a stalker.

Before Sylvain can decide on a plan, the train pulls into Zürich Hauptbahnhof. Sylvain finds himself on the platform, utterly lost as to what to do next.

He should tell Felix he’s in Zürich. That was the entire point of rushing out of Bern. He fumbles his phone.

Sylvain exhales, heavy. He’s acting exactly like all the whiny girlfriends he never cared about—the ones who coveted him a shiny, gold trinket, the ones who clung and cried when they found out he was seeing other people too. It’s pathetic.

But he’s also dying soon, so if he needs to be a little pathetic, so be it. He doesn’t have long left for people to judge him.

> **Me:** so, uh, i’m in zurich now? at the hb main station
> 
> **Me:** let me know where to go

Sylvain loiters around the entrance, nibbling at a sandwich he picks up on the way out, waiting for Felix to respond. A few people stare at him.

Every time he spots dark hair, his heart jumps to his throat only to slink away disappointed moments later. Wrong again. Not Felix. Of course not Felix. It’s ridiculous to hope that Felix might appear around the corner. Why would he be anywhere near the train station? He doesn’t have any business here

Felix eventually texts him back a half hour later.

> **Felix** : what the fuck

Sylvain reads the message and flexes his fingers. He takes a risk and hits the call button. It rings twice.

“What the fuck,” Felix says again, out loud, irritated. It’s a good sign that he doesn’t hang up immediately. Profanity has never sounded more beautiful.

“Hey! I’m uh, also in Zürich.”

A pause.

“Did you follow us here?”

“What! No, of course not,” Sylvain says cheerily, unconvincing even to his own ears.

“You’re lying.”

Sylvain winces. “Okay, yes. I don’t really have anything better to do, and I’ve always wanted to see Zürich, you know? So I thought, might as well.”

“Fucking stalker.”

Felix says it almost affectionately. Sylvain huffs out a laugh and shrugs. It takes him a moment to remember that Felix can’t see him.

“Call me what you will, I just wanted to ask if you would like to spend some more time together. You know, while we can.”

Sylvain rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits for Felix to answer. The seconds seem to stretch to an eternity as he waits, and a chill crawls down his spine. Is Felix going to say no? Has Sylvain read this wrong? He thought they enjoyed their time in Bern together, but maybe that’s Sylvain’s end-of-life desperation talking, or even just his regular desperation.

He should back out, give Felix his space, go back to his original plan of living it up in his last few weeks of life. Trust Sylvain to fail to even fucking _die_ without making life worse for other people.

“You know what, it’s okay, never—”

Felix sighs, cutting Sylvain off. “Fine. Where are you?”

“Sorry?”

Felix scoffs. Sylvain’s heart clenches at the sound. God, Felix is so cute. “I said, where are you?”

“Oh, uh—Zürich HB? The south entrance, I think.” Sylvain looks around him for signs, but his below-par German fails him as he squints.

“I think that’s not too far from where we are. Give me an hour to ditch Glenn and the old man. I’ll text you a location.”

“Okay, see you soon.” Sylvain bites back the “babe” that tries to tack itself on at the end. What’s wrong with him? He doesn’t have the right, and even if he did, it’s not like that with Felix. He’s just taking the second chance he’s being given before his time runs out.

That’s all this is, and all it can be.

—

The address that Felix sends Sylvain to is a cafe not far from the train station, though in the opposite direction from the hotel he found while waiting. It’s brightly lit and picturesque, tables crammed so tight all the patrons are elbow to elbow. Not at all the kind of place that Sylvain would ever expect Felix to like.

He chuckles dryly. Unfortunately, maybe things do change.

Sylvain stops by the counter to order a caffe latte. He finds Felix in a corner far from the door, out of sight of any windows. Felix has a cup of black coffee in front of him and he sips at it, his head buried in his phone.

Sylvain collects his drink and drops into the seat across from Felix.

“There you are,” Sylvain says, grinning. He stretches out like an asshole, making sure his foot touches Felix’s. A reminder that this is real, that despite following Felix to Zürich like the stalker Felix keeps claiming he is, Felix chose to meet him anyway. Felix rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away.

Felix shrugs. “I said I would be.”

Sylvain nods to the rest of the cafe. “Never thought the preppy, hipster vibe would be your thing.”

“It’s not. Annette keeps dragging me to these, and I got used to them.”

Sylvain smiles, a little brittle. Who’s Annette? How did she manage to change Felix’s famously fussy tastes?

Felix rolls his eyes. “She’s a friend from undergrad.”

Sylvain blinks. He definitely did not mean to say that out loud.

“She didn’t ‘change’ me,” Felix continues, “she just… likes these places. So we visited a lot of the ones around D.C. when she came down from grad school to visit. She’s out in the Bay Area now, working for an alternative energy startup. I don’t see her as much anymore.” Felix is wistful as he trails off.

“She sounds nice.”

And she honestly does, which is the problem. In the years since Sylvain left, Felix found friends in college, made up with Dimitri, and ended up okay with life. He learned how to be happy again. Sylvain, on the other hand, is spending his last days torn between chasing after a childhood friend and sleeping with as many hot Europeans as possible.

Sylvain was never going to make much of himself, but it’s really hitting him just how much he’s failed upward in life.

“She is,” Felix says, and he smiles, small and with only one corner of his mouth. It’s softer than any Sylvain has seen on him since they met up, possibly since before that one Colorado trip. All for a girl that Felix has only known a few years. Sylvain doesn’t have the right to hate it, but he does.

“Wish I could meet her.” Sylvain almost means it, if only so he can meet the person who tamed Felix where even Glenn and Dimitri had failed.

“She’s coming up to visit for my birthday in February. Come visit then.”

February. Only two months away, and no guarantee Sylvain will be around to see it.

“I’d like that,” he lies, and promptly decides to put all talk of the future out of his mind. He takes a sip of his latte. “But enough about that, how’d you manage to lose the fam?”

“Glenn almost followed me. Had to promise him I’d go with him tomorrow to see some castles.”

Sylvain glances at the distant windows. “Is that why we’re so far back?”

“Yes, and keep your head down.”

Sylvain ducks, hunching his shoulders threatically. Felix snorts.

Sylvain hums thoughtfully and drinks his coffee. “Not to be ungrateful about you spending time with me, but is it actually okay for you to keep ditching your family?”

“Glenn’s looking for an excuse to go do his own thing, and the old man is fine. Rodrigue’s never cared what I do as long I’m not making life worse for him. Anyway, Glenn’s getting married in the spring, so the attention is on him. ”

“Oh, I didn’t know. Congrats to him!” Sylvain says. It’s easy to dredge up honest enthusiasm about Glenn’s engagement; it doesn’t hurt to know that Glenn is on the cusp of eternal bliss. Too bad Sylvain never learned to be graceful in the things that don’t personally benefit him. He’s too much a Gautier for that.

Felix snorts. “Thanks. If you catch him, you should tell him.”

“Aw, you won’t tell him for me?”

“If you want to keep hanging around, I’m sure you’ll run into each other eventually.” Felix looks away as he says it, and spots of red appear in his cheeks.

Sylvain gapes. How does Felix keep taking the ground out from under him? His own cheeks are a little warm too.

“I—ah, I’d like that.”

Felix chugs the rest of his coffee. His face’s pink tinge is still visible behind the cup. Sylvain mirrors him, just for something to do, and he swallows a grimace as the remaining espresso hits him all at once.

Felix sets his cup down and does not make eye contact with Sylvain. “Stop thinking about it so hard. It’s Glenn’s last unattached holiday, we’re supposed to make sure it’s a good one. He won’t mind seeing you.”

It’s also Sylvain’s last holiday, ever. No one is making a big deal out of it. Must be nice to have a family capable of spending quality time together and wishing each other well.

“Sure, whatever you say,” Sylvain agrees, unwilling to dwell. He shoves all thoughts of the definition of “last” from his mind. “Want to get out of here? I was looking up Zürich before I got here.”

Felix looks at him, dubious. “Why should I trust your judgment?”

“I’ve never led you astray! Or, you know, never intentionally.”

Felix’s expression speaks for him. Sylvain sighs, loud and dramatic. “Hey, come on, have a little faith. I promise if you’re not having fun, we’ll leave.”

Finally, Felix nods.

Sylvain grins. He wasn’t lying about looking up tourist spots. He’s willing to bet that Felix will complain if he knows where they’re going, but he’ll enjoy it anyway. A little light-hearted anticipation never hurt anyone.

—

Felix halts at the entrance to the Zürich Hauptbahnhof Christmas market, utterly unimpressed.

“No.”

Sylvain has to turn around to beckon him. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“You’ll have to make a better argument than that.”

Sylvain pouts. “It’s cute and seasonal and way better than the ones you can find back in the States.”

“That doesn’t make me more inclined to go in. There are way too many people in there, and all the food is,” Felix shudders, “sweet.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Felix looks away. “No.”

“Then come on, what do you have to lose?”

“My appetite,” Felix mutters, mutinous. He looks back at Sylvain and sighs. “Fine. But if I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving.”

Sylvain grins. “Deal.”

Inside, the train station is illuminated by strings of twinkling lights, suffusing the cavernous space with a soft, seasonal glow. What had been a cheerful interior in the daytime is magical under fading sunlight. The market’s countless booths are vibrant and noisy around them. In the distance, the market’s centerpiece tree stands above it all, bedecked with all manner of holiday garlands.

From every direction, the stalls’ owners hawk their wares, wafting sweet scents and brandishing oddities and trinkets. It’s a thin veneer over keen-eyed capitalism, a clever ploy to prey on the season’s loose wallets. Here, in the midst of one of the world’s most famous, Sylvain is ready to be swept away by the liveliness of it all.

People jostle past them. A burly man bumps into Felix, sending his face straight into Sylvain’s shoulder. Felix glares after him, murder in his eyes, ready to pick a fight. Sylvain grabs his hand to distract him. It’s not at all because he wants to. He has to stop himself from letting go immediately. Felix’s hand is _cold_. It’s like holding a fleshy icicle in his palm. It’s also oddly nostalgic—the Felix of Sylvain’s childhood also had poor circulation and a disdain for gloves.

“Christ! Your hand’s freezing.”

Felix’s hand fidgets in his, but he doesn’t pull away. Sylvain glances over to see his head turned away.

“Shut up,” Felix says eloquently, and he ducks his head into the collar of his coat.

Sylvain laces their fingers together. “Well, let me warm you up a bit,” he jokes, and he tucks their joined hands into his pocket. Heat crawls up his neck. It’s only because the market is indoors and the crowd presses in around them from all sides.

They meander between the stalls, stopping occasionally. A row of painted dolls catches Sylvain’s eye, and he holds up one with dark hair and a frown reminiscent of Felix’s. Felix doesn’t appreciate the comparison. Another table proudly showcases its stacks of cheese. They smell it before they see it. Felix pulls Sylvain to a stop and squints at the labels.

“I should buy a wheel for Dimitri.”

“He still likes cheese that much?”

Felix grimaces. “Even more than he used to. He once ate an entire wheel of bleu cheese for dinner, with nothing else. Ingrid took all his buffalo wings.”

Sylvain snorts. “Well, at least you know what kind to get him.” He glances at the prices. “You know what, get two. I’ll pay.” Better than to let his remaining money go to his family. “Give him one from me as well.”

Felix raises an eyebrow and turns back to the cheese. The hardest part of acquiring the cheese turns out to be trying to tell the seller which ones he wants. Between Felix’s atrocious German, the owner’s mediocre English, and Sylvain being too busy trying not to laugh to help, they play out a ridiculous pantomime before the cash and the cheese successfully manage to change hands.

“Asshole,” Felix says, allowing Sylvain to take his hand again once the purchase is squared away. Sylvain’s heart skips a beat. He holds back from squeezing Felix’s hand as he brings them back to his pocket. “You should have talked to him from the beginning.”

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?”

Felix digs his nails into the back of Sylvain’s hand. Ow. “How’s this for fun?”

“Better to keep the pain play in the bedroom,” Sylvain snarks back automatically.

Feix makes a disgusted noise. “You’re insatiable.”

Sylvain grins at him.

They make it to the next block of stalls when an array of festively-decorated Swiss cookies catches Sylvain’s eye. He buys a small box of basler brunsli before Felix can even open his mouth to protest, and he holds out a cookie expectantly.

Felix sighs and tries to take it with his free hand, but Sylvain pulls away and grins. Felix scowls. “I’m not letting you feed me.”

“Just have a bite! I won’t make you eat any more of it.”

“One bite,” Felix warns, and he leans in just far enough to first bite Sylvain’s finger in protest—and Sylvain adamantly does not think about where else on his body he’d like for Felix to bite—and then to break off a chunk of the offending sweet treat.

“Kinky.”

Felix pauses in his chewing to roll his eyes at Sylvain. “Truly insatiable.”

Sylvain smiles down at Felix, his chest warm. For all the time they missed, and for all the memories they never got to make, spending time with Felix is still as natural as breathing. They didn’t quite pick up where they left off, but finding Felix again has mostly been like something out of a fairy tale.

Felix breaks eye contact first, a blush crawling into his cheeks again. He says again, under his breath, part mortified and part disbelieving, “Utterly insatiable.”

Sylvain chuckles and pops the rest of the cookie into his mouth. It’s a dark, rich, chocolate flavor, with a cinnamon profile loud against his tongue. It crumbles easily as he chews.

“What did you think?” Sylvain asks as he fishes for the next cookie.

“What?”

“The cookie.”

Felix jerks a shoulder. “It was fine.”

“Good, yeah?”

“I _said_ it was fine.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Sylvain says, soft, squeezing Felix’s hand, “because of the cinnamon. The spice helps, right?”

Felix clicks his tongue. “Shut up.” He tugs at Sylvain. “Eat your cookies and keep walking.”

—

They wind their way through the crowd, making their way slowly toward the tree. At one point, a loud French couple bickering over the quality of pastries blocks the walkway and they have to double back to avoid them. At another corner, Sylvain has to sidestep to avoid tripping over a pair of American children chasing after each other, screaming at the top of their lungs. Felix catches him, his hand tight on Sylvain’s bicep, and Sylvain is far too tempted to lean in further.

As they near the tree, a kindly old woman waves them down from her stand. Her table is decorated in Danish flags and the air is thick with the sugary smell of icing. Sylvain waves back.

He expects it when Felix digs in his heels, but he hauls Felix along nonetheless.

The Danish grandma holds up a tree-shaped tower of circular cakes to Sylvain.

“Have you ever had kransekake before, young man? Traditional Danish holiday cake,” she says in lilted English, gazing up at Sylvain expectantly. “Fresh today.”

Sylvain winks at her. “Not as fresh as you.”

Felix makes a noise next to him. The Danish lady looks lost.

“That is—no, I haven’t,” Sylvain says, coughing uncomfortably. “I’d love to try one though.”

The old woman’s smiles at him, a little unsure, but rings him up for a small cake, with a stack of only three rings. It’s covered in delicate laces of icing, festooned in strands of red and white, and topped with a leaf-shaped decoration of forest green. It gives Sylvain a bit of a toothache just looking at it.

“I’m not eating that,” Felix informs him as they walk away, the old woman waving genially at their backs.

“I’m sure it’s great,” Sylvain says, more certain than he feels.

“I can smell the sugar.”

Sylvain makes a face. Felix isn’t wrong.

“Just a bite.”

“No.”

“One bite,” Sylvain wheedles.

Felix’s gaze flicks between Sylvain and the cake. “ _Just_ one.”

They pause, out of the way of the main thoroughfare, and Sylvain picks up the top ring with a serviette and snaps it in two, holding one piece out to Felix. Felix pinches it between his thumb and index finger, careful to make as little contact with the cake as possible. He takes a small bite off one end and shoves the rest of it back to Sylvain.

“Ugh, way too sweet,” Felix says, grimacing as he swallows.

Sylvain takes a bite for himself. Definitely too sweet, but nowhere near as bad as Felix is making it out to be. A far cry better than candy canes, as seasonal concentrated sugar goes. “I think it’s fine.”

Felix gags and pinches his face. “I’m not doing that again. No more cakes or sweets or confectionaries.”

Sylvain laughs. “Aw, but you’re so cute when you complain about sweet things.”

Felix wrinkles his nose. “I loathe you.”

“No, you don’t,” Sylvain says, taking another bite of the cake. It tastes better than the first one. The flavor and the texture are growing on him.

“No, I don’t,” Felix says, exasperated.

Sylvain grins and eats the rest of the kransekake quickly. He tosses the plate in the next trash bin they see. As soon as it’s gone, Felix’s hand replaces it, his fingers entwining with Sylvain’s.

Sylvain has to stare a moment to make sure he’s not hallucinating.

“Let’s keep moving,” Felix says, turning away and pulling Sylvain toward the last section of the market they haven’t seen yet. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can have some real food.”

Sylvain grins at the back of Felix’s head. “By real food, you mean meat.”

“Shut up.”

Maybe Sylvain imagines it, but he swears that Felix’s grip tightens as he drags Sylvain along.

—

The tree at the heart of the market is even more breathtaking up close. It towers over them, shining and brilliant. Even craning his head, Sylvain can’t see the top.

Sylvain can almost feel Felix vibrating with anticipation, desperate to leave. He’s impressed Felix stuck it out this long. They’ll leave in a minute. Sylvain has just one more thing he wants.

Sylvain approaches a sandy-haired tourist idling near them to ask him to take a photo. He may not have much longer to appreciate the photo, but it’s something to show that he and Felix were here—that they lived, that they shared this much.

“Really?” Felix says, annoyed, even as he moves to pose next to Sylvain.

“Hey, sue me, I had fun and I want a pic to commemorate this.” He nudges Felix with his shoulder. He’s tempted to twitch his hand lower from Felix’s waist, but he can’t guarantee that he’ll keep his hand if he does. “Don’t worry, I’ll send it to you.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Felix retorts, “but good.”

The man takes a good four or five shots on Sylvain’s phone before handing it back, fumbling as he does so and nearly dropping it on the ground. Sylvain gives the man a consoling pat on the shoulder. They’ve all been there.

Despite the man’s clumsiness, the photos are well-posed and well-lit, handled with the grace of someone who’s done this a hundred thousand times. The myriad of lights reflect in gentle tones off Felix’s face and hair, softening his scowl and leaving him with an almost otherworldly beauty. Sylvain looks like himself next to him, human and cocky and with a brittle and plastic grin.

“Well?” Felix demands, peering over Sylvain’s arm. “Does it look okay? Can we get out of here?” He squints critically for a long moment and reaches down to swipe between the pictures. “These look fine,” Felix says, and he glances up.

A jolt of lightning bolts down Sylvain’s spine as he meets Felix’s gaze in the middle, his face only a hair’s breadth away. Felix starts to say something else, but Sylvain doesn’t hear it, caught instead in the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

If Felix is ethereal in the image, he’s devastating in real life. For all its almost-professional quality, the photo doesn’t capture the contours of Felix’s cheeks or the brilliance of his eyes. In the low light, his irises glimmer like molten gold, endless pools to drown in, a siren’s song to swallow Sylvain whole.

He’s beautiful. He’s the most beautiful thing Sylvain has ever seen.

It was a mistake to let himself be pulled away all those years ago. It’s a mistake now to have gotten so close again when he’s set to leave, permanently, at a moment’s notice.

He looks down at Felix’s mouth. It’s so close. Every breath Felix takes tickles Sylvain’s chin. It would be incredibly easy to lean forward and capture those lips in his own. It would be different now from the kisses they shared the other night, with all these witnesses, without the excuse of lust. Sylvain wants nothing more.

He flicks his eyes up to search Felix’s, but they’re not looking into his own. They’re wide, focused on Sylvain’s mouth. His irises are almost completely hidden, engulfed by the darkness of his pupils.

Sylvain’s heart hammers, reverberating through his body. He leans forward, his eyes drifting closed.

All at once, there’s an impact that shoves Felix forward, and Felix’s lips miss his, skating along his chin instead. Sylvain’s eyes fly open in confusion. Felix is glowering over his shoulder, a furious, luminescent pink that plays nicely with the market’s golden lighting. With that, the spell is broken, and the rumbling noise of the market around them is suddenly too loud and too present.

Sylvain exhales shakily and drops his head forward so that his forehead meets Felix’s.

“Jackass,” Felix mutters, venomous, still trying to turn and see who bumped into him. He’s interrupted by his stomach gurgling loudly. He turns impossibly pinker.

“I think that’s our cue to go get some real food,” Sylvain whispers, holding back laughter.

Felix pushes him away and stands up straight. Sylvain immediately misses the warmth of Felix draped across him. “Shut up. You’re paying again.”

Sylvain catches Felix’s hand before he can escape completely and holds it between his own. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.” He drops it and nods toward the exit. “Shall we?”

Felix nods, curt and assertive.

As they’re exiting the station, Felix sneaks his hand into Sylvain’s pocket. Sylvain smiles at him so beatifically his jaw hurts.

—

Dinner is more steak for Felix and a dressed-up Hafenchabis for Sylvain, accompanied by a bottle red split between them. Felix keeps the toe of his boot just grazing against Sylvain’s calf the entire time. By the time they finish, the streets are quiet and the people are one by one starting to go to sleep. They stand in the cold, lit in sharp relief by the streetlight above them.

“Thank you for dinner,” Felix says stiffly. He stares at a point over Sylvain’s shoulder.

“You too,” Sylvain says. “Thanks for spending the day with me. Sorry I keep interrupting your family vacation.”

“You do, but—I don’t mind.”

“Good, that’s good,” Sylvain says, exhaling. He glances at the empty street around them. “It’s getting really late, and you probably need to head back…”

“No,” Felix says, abrupt. “I don’t need to be anywhere.” He says it expectantly, like Sylvain’s missing the very obvious point.

“You don’t?”

“No.” Still impatient, almost petulant. It clicks.

Sylvain steps closer to Felix and stands tall. Felix only reaches his nose. The perfect height to tilt up his chin slightly and smirk down. “Okay, then. Come back with me.”

Felix relaxes, satisfied. A moment later, he grins up at Sylvain, feral, seductive, a glint in his eye. Sylvain’s blood burns in his veins, and he curses the distance to his hotel.

They make it there in record time.

—

Felix is in the middle of tugging on his shirt when Sylvain wakes the following morning, early enough that the window is still dark. Anger curls sour in the pit of his stomach. He props himself up on his side.

“Leaving again?”

Felix’s head pops through the collar of his slightly-wrinkled, sleeveless turtleneck. It’s impressive how hot he is even as he’s getting ready to do a walk of shame. He glances at Sylvain. “Glenn texted last night. Wants to meet for breakfast before going to do dumb, touristy shit.”

“Oh.”

Felix mentioned something about that at the cafe yesterday. Stupid of Sylvain to have forgotten.

Felix has a family who likes his company. He’s not in Europe for the reason Sylvain is. To Felix, Sylvain is a way to kill time while on vacation, nothing more than a distraction. It’s all he’s ever been good for. It’s too late to hope to be more.

“I need to go for a run, too,” Felix adds, grabbing his pants.

Sylvain exhales and flops onto the bed. “Of course you do.”

Felix frowns. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing.”

Felix clicks his tongue. “Don’t fucking lie. It’s annoying. Always has been.”

Sylvain snorts and turns away. “Must be nice to have someone else who wants to sightsee with you.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Sylvain jams his eyes closed and wills himself to go back to sleep. Felix waits for Sylvain to reply. It’s obvious that his impatience wins out after only a few seconds, because he huffs and walks away from the bed. The sounds of Felix getting dressed echo in Sylvain’s ears, out of time with the pounding of his heart.

It’s too soon when he hears the doorknob click. Felix pauses.

“You know I’m just going to do what Glenn wants. I’m not ditching you.”

Sylvain opens his eyes and sighs. “I know.” His jealousy isn’t warranted, but when has it ever been? This is just Sylvain, always on the verge of ruining everything good the moment it enters his life.

“Good,” Felix says, and he clears his throat. “I’ll see you later?”

Sylvain turns to look at Felix by the door. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Felix gives Sylvain a small smile. Sylvain is tempted to launch himself across the room to kiss it.

The door clicks shut. Sylvain closes his eyes, and this time, he manages to drift off to sleep.

—

The second time Sylvain wakes, the edges of the hotel room curtains are illuminated a blinding white, the sun streaming in through their corners. He sits up slow, rolling his shoulders. He winces as they crack.

He won’t deny the disappointment at waking up to the knowledge that his bed is cold. It isn’t any easier under the scrutiny of day. No matter how selfish Sylvain is, he hasn’t earned the right to keep anyone at his side, let alone Felix. It’s the last thing he should want, anyway, what with his impending death. He can only make the best of the time he has, finally living so that his numbered days hurt no one else.

In the meantime, there’s a city outside to explore. He only has so many hours left to see it.

—

It’s easy enough to choose a destination. Given the choice, Sylvain always turns first to the fine arts. Today is no different. He might have been raised to enjoy art as a product and sign of wealth, but it’s become so much more.

He arrives at Kunsthaus Zürich just before noon and shuffles in with the crowd.

Once inside, time passes at hyperspeed as it always does when surrounded by art. He loses almost three hours to the second floor wandering the galleries of the greats, steeping himself in the infinite moods of Impressionism and reveling in its sharp contrast with mid-20th century pop art. He spends another two wandering through the Renaissance collection. He barely has time to step foot into the ground floor garden before he’s turned around and ushered out by a docent for the museum’s 8 pm closing.

Once back on the street, Sylvain exhales, his breath rising up in wisps before him. He straightens his scarf, a gaudy Christmas-colored thing he’d picked up on his way in on a whim. His stomach grumbles that art is a feast only for the eyes.

He finds a quick dinner nearby, a salad and sandwich to silence his hunger. His fingers twitch toward his phone as he eats. It hasn’t vibrated all day. Felix is busy with Glenn, and he’s never been the type to text first, so it’s expected. Sylvain has to bury his frustration anyway.

He gives up on patience after he finishes eating.

> **Me** : up for some more fun tonight? ;)

He shoves his phone back in his pocket as he pays. He can’t feel too bad about how pathetic he’s being. He’s running on borrowed time, and Felix said he’d see Sylvain later. It’s later now.

Felix texts as he’s crossing the Münsterbrücke back to the west side of the Limmat.

> **Felix** : why are you like this
> 
> **Felix** : glenn saw your stupid message
> 
> **Felix** : where are you?

Sylvain texts him a picture of the river. It was picturesque during the day. Now, at night, it’s a haunting mirror reflecting the city lights.

> **Me** : [Attached Image]
> 
> **Felix** : where the fuck is that? can’t see shit
> 
> **Me** : limmat river, heading west over minster bridge

Typing dots appear and disappear. A small child runs into Sylvain’s leg after a couple minutes, and he realizes he’s been standing still, waiting for Felix to reply.

Sylvain forces himself to walk. There’s a stretch of railing to lean against once he’s finally off the bridge.

> **Felix** : we’re here

Sylvain looks up. Felix is about ten paces away, his head ducked into his coat and his hands jammed in his pockets. He’s glaring over the edge of his collar. Next to him is an instantly recognizable man with similar dark hair and shocking blue eyes.

“Hey, Glenn, good to see you,” Sylvain says, holding out his hand.

Glenn looks at him quizzically, ignoring Sylvain’s offered handshake. After a long moment, he slaps Felix’s arm and barks out a sharp laugh.

“You ran into the Gautier kid? That’s why you’ve been so weird and happy this week? Holy shit, no wonder you weren’t willing to say who it was.”

“Fuck off,” Felix hisses, shoving his brother away. “I didn’t say anything because it’s none of your business.”

Glenn rolls his eyes and finally walks forward to take Sylvain’s hand. He squeezes hard enough that Sylvain’s pretty sure he feels a bone crack.

“I’ll know if you hurt him again, so don’t fucking try anything,” Glenn says, just loud enough for Sylvain to hear.

Again? What is he talking about? Sylvain has never tried to hurt Felix, not as a child and not now.

Glenn doesn’t give him a chance to ask, because he raises his voice and adds, “It’s been, what, ten years? Still a smug fucker, aren’t you? What are you doing around here?”

“Eleven,” Sylvain corrects, wincing as Glenn squeezes harder. “I’m on vacation and I happened to run into Felix in Bern.”

Glenn lets go. Sylvain flexes his fingers a few times to make sure that there’s still circulation in his hand.

“Happened to,” Glenn repeats, skeptical. “And I’m supposed to believe you also ‘happened to’ run into him here in Zürich?”

Sylvain chuckles, sheepish. “Ah—no, that one’s not a coincidence.”

“Stalker,” Felix adds, under his breath. He shoves past his brother to stand next to Sylvain.

“Cute,” Glenn says, glancing between them, voice laced with amusement.

Next to Sylvain, Felix turns a faint pink. He’s not sure if it’s because of the city’s evening light, warm as it reflects off Felix’s face.

“Whatever,” Felix says, rolling his eyes. “You can go now, I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Aw, but you’re my precious baby brother, and I need to protect you from the big, bad ginger man.”

Syvain doesn’t know whether he should be offended. He opens his mouth to argue, but Felix cuts him off with a snort.

“Please, I can kick his ass like I can kick yours.”

Okay, scratch that, Sylvain is definitely offended. Not that Felix is wrong, per se, but hey, Sylvain works out a nonzero amount. It shouldn’t be that easy for Felix to manhandle him, no matter how hot the thought is.

Sylvain does speak this time. “I’d like to say, no one should be getting their ass kicked, least of all me.”

Both Fraldarius brothers turn on him. Glenn raises an eyebrow and draws himself up to his full height. It’s a little menacing even though Glenn’s half a head shorter. Sylvain valiantly does not wilt. Felix, meanwhile, looks Sylvain over from head to toe, critical and almost smoldering. Sylvain’s pretty sure he’s figuring out the easiest way to deliver his threatened ass-kicking. It shouldn’t be as much of a turn-on as it is, but that’s something to shelve until they make it back to Sylvain’s hotel room.

“Fine,” Glenn scoffs eventually. “I’ll let you handle yourself, Felix.” He glances at Sylvain. “I’ve got my eye on you, Gautier.”

“Fuck off, Glenn,” Felix growls, inching closer to Sylvain, but Glenn’s already turning away, leaving them with a wave and disappearing into the night.

They watch him until he’s a dark dot against an even darker backdrop. Felix relaxes.

“He’s finally gone,” he says. “I couldn’t shake him all day. I meant to get back to you earlier.” His voice drops and he mumbles something that sounds like “sorry”.

Sylvain looks at him, but his head is turned away. There’s no mistaking the splotchy red decorating his neck and crawling up his cheeks. Suddenly, Sylvain feels heat blooming in his own face, too.

He can’t believe they’re still a good fifteen minutes from the hotel. The trains won’t get them there faster.

Sylvain clears his throat and offers Felix a hand. “Want to walk?”

“Sure. Whatever.” Felix takes it without looking and clears his throat. “Lead the way.”

—

Zürich at night is something straight out of a travel guide, so perfectly lit and comfortable it might as well be a photoshopped image. Felix fits into it seamlessly, his sharp spines and bitter edges tamed under its muted glow.

He’s silent beside Sylvain, his grip bruising against Sylvain’s fingers, his eyes fixed straight ahead. His jaw is clenched, and he’s chewing on a thought that seems to be fighting its way out of him. Sylvain doesn’t see the point in talking when they could be booking it back to the hotel, but if Felix has something he wants to say, then Sylvain will listen. Forever—or as close to it, given that he’s headed straight for death—if that’s what Felix wants.

Sylvain leads them north to Rennweg, one of the oldest areas of the city. The pedestrian roadway is lit up with strings of light, glittering, suspended in the darkness. Soft speckles reflect off Felix’s eyes and dance across his skin.

God, he’s beautiful. Sylvain bites his lip to keep the words from escaping.

The last of the day’s tourists still mill about, peering into darkened storefronts. Between the narrow doorways and abundance of flags, it’s about as touristy as Zürich gets. Even the air smells of history.

Felix lets himself be led about halfway down the street before he stops and pulls on Sylvain’s hand.

Sylvain turns, tilting his head.

Felix opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again but continues to say nothing. His face contorts into a grimace.

Sylvain takes pity on him. “There’s a bench over there. Want to sit?”

Felix nods, mute and jerky. He drags Sylvain over and sits down, hard, the line of his back severe. Sylvain takes a seat to his left and waits.

The silence is loud. Overwhelmingly so. Has he read this wrong? Is Felix upset? The Felix Sylvain knew never minced words, but years have passed, and there’s still so much for him to re-learn. Maybe he missed his chance to have a last goodbye. Maybe he never had one.

Sylvain’s mind drifts back, unbidden, to eleven more years of silence, all his fault. He should have been a little braver. They would never have lost contact if he had been. He could be worth having Felix in his life if he stood up to his father’s will.

A string of what-ifs, all lost to time.

Beside Sylvain, Felix sits wordless. Second by second, the silence grows heavier and more oppressive.

When Sylvain opens his mouth, words pour out unbidden. He can barely keep track of what he says. He knows only that he needs to fill the emptiness.

He talks about being seventeen, right on the cusp of freedom and adulthood, and suddenly having to uproot everything he knew and loved. Miklan’s criminality was staining their father’s reputation. They needed to restart before the stink got so deep it would never wash out. The girls accusing Miklan of harassment and assault were of little consequence; they could be easily paid off and silenced. Grease enough palms and you can get anywhere. Cut off contact with the past in the hopes that it doesn’t chase you down.

The Gautiers left quickly; they ran ahead of the scandal breaking. They dodged enough of the fallout that their new “friends” in Long Island never heard a word about Miklan Gautier or his improprieties. Sylvain knew not to fight it. It wouldn’t have made a difference if he tried. His father’s will was—and is—iron.

Fast forward eleven years, and Sylvain’s—well, he’s here, in Europe, beside Felix. The “why” doesn’t really matter. He’s sorry for not keeping any contact. It was always his biggest regret.

Felix is quiet all through Sylvain’s rambling. He’s quiet after, too.

So Sylvain tries again: “I thought about texting, or calling, or even fucking _emailing_ , every day. Sometimes I would take out my phone and type the numbers in and write out a message—but I always chickened out at the last moment. I couldn’t risk my father finding out. You have to believe me.”

He looks at Felix, hopeful, desperate.

Finally, Felix speaks, low and tired. “I do. It’s fine.” Sylvain hears in his voice that it’s not. “I stopped waiting after the first year. I knew not to bother after you didn’t call on my birthday.”

“I—I wanted to. So much.”

“But you didn’t.”

Sylvain exhales. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t,” Felix repeats, pulling his hand free of Sylvain’s and crossing his arms. “You made that choice, and I lived with it. That’s all there is to it. The past is immutable.”

Sylvain’s future is as well; there’s nothing ahead of him but a pile of ashes and the promise of six feet under. He can only make the best of his fleeting present, shoving all of his what-could-have-beens into the here and now.

“You’re right, it is. But… I can work on making things better now, and I can learn from what I missed.”

“What do you want me to say? It’s over. No use dwelling on it. We’re better off without wasting more time being maudlin.” Felix shivers as he speaks, his coat and shitty circulation no match for the deepening evening chill. Ignore the past, ignore the cold. Felix’s bluster has never served him well.

Sylvain sighs, fond. “Here,” he says, unwinding his hideous Christmas scarf and draping it across Felix’s neck. “Humor me. I was gone a long time.”

“Your taste in scarves is trash,” Felix says instead, wrinkling his nose at the bright-nosed reindeer dancing across the woven fabric. He wraps it tight around his face anyway.

“It’s _festive_ ,” Sylvain argues, unable to keep the mirth from his voice. It’s an atrocious scarf, but that’s part of the charm.

“It’s a monstrosity.”

“A monstrosity you’re currently shoving your face into.”

Felix clicks his tongue. “It’s warm.”

“You run cold.”

“You’re too hot,” Felix retorts. He freezes as he processes what he’s just said. “Never mind, shut up, you know what I mean.”

Sylvain laughs and leans into Felix. “Come on, call me hot again, I liked it.”

Felix scoots away, his elbow rising automatically to keep Sylvain at bay. “Fuck off.”

Sylvain waits a moment to see if Felix will drop the arm, but he doesn’t, so he settles back to give him his space.

The final lights in the windows dim one by one, the night deepening. The stragglers are all dispersed now, and the street is almost vacant. Sylvain drops against the back of the bench, staring up to count the stars. There are a couple more here than can be seen in New York, but light pollution taints every city’s sky.

“Glenn left only about a year before,” Felix says suddenly. Sylvain turns his head to look at him. It takes him a moment to realize Felix is talking about the past. “Stanford, pre-law, and then actual law school at Yale a couple years later. The old man was so proud.”

“Glenn went through with it?”

“Yes. Practice law, get married, have two and a half children. The perfect life,” Felix says bitterly.

“Honestly sounds kind of boring. Never thought Glenn would go for being a Rodrigue clone.”

Felix makes a disgruntled noise. “Glenn’s not. He would never. It’s just—Dimitri chose law school, too.” His voice drops. “I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Rodrigue never said anything direct. He never said anything to me at all. He always praised Glenn. Always encouraged Dimitri. I might as well have been the ghost haunting their home.” Felix’s face morphs into a scowl. “He knew what Dimitri was becoming and he let him. Told him he was doing so well. What a farce.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Dimitri was going through a rough patch. Was it so bad to be nice to him?”

“You weren’t there.” Felix shakes his head. “Dimitri spent all his time in his room, obsessively trying to prove that his father’s accident was a murder.”

“It was a bizarre accident, all things considered, especially for a seasoned skier like Mr. Blaiddyd. Can’t blame him.”

Felix ignores Sylvain and presses on. “By the time he ran out of threads to chase, he was deep in the weeds of the legal system. He got angrier and angrier the more apparent it became that the idea of ‘justice’ is a sham. He wanted to make the system pay for hurting its people. He once ranted that Wall Street is a poison and should be razed to the ground.”

Sylvain cracks a grin. “I mean, it’s not a bad idea. Pretty illegal though.”

Felix glares. “He meant it.”

“We all mean it, at some point or another. The system’s fucked. There’s not much any one person can do about it, though.”

Felix scoffs. “Dimitri still thinks he can be that one person.” He sighs and leans back. He looks almost defeated. Sylvain puts a hand on Felix’s knee and squeezes comfortingly. “At least he’s not angry anymore. Only overworking. He’s improved a lot ever since one of his freshman year TAs found him a therapist.”

“That’s good.”

“It was—but it took four years too many to get there. After you left, I couldn’t get anyone to listen. Glenn was on the other side of the country. Ingrid always had dressage practice. Dimitri didn’t hear anyone, then, only his ghosts.” He snorts. “Actually, you never listened either, but at least you faked it better than Glenn and Ingrid.”

Felix’s momentary humor drops away as he continues. “Rodrigue could never bring himself to criticize me directly, but everything he said was itself criticism. ‘Look at Glenn. Look at Dimitri.’ Never mind that Glenn was never as golden as everyone always wanted to paint him. That Dimitri was stripped down to the roughest version of himself. My old man never heard his own bile. He refused to see the way it warped Dimitri, never answered for the monster Dimitri let himself become.”

Felix drops his gaze and crumbles inward, small without his anger to hold him up. He’s trembling. He heaves a slow breath.

“Those years were—long. Every day passed like an eon. Glenn wasn’t around. Ingrid kept getting busier. I lost Dimitri, I lost you, I lost everything. I was—” he blinks rapidly, choked on his own vulnerability, “I was so lonely.”

There’s a finality in how Felix says it. Like this is the first time the feeling has been excavated and named, unearthed from the cavity of his chest. Maybe it is.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Felix, I’m so sorry.” Sylvain says, low, his own voice rough with emotion.

He watches Felix, still shaking, still shell-shocked. Felix was always a bundle of too much care struggling to escape learned binds. Sylvain holds his arm open, raises it slow, a tentative offer.

Felix hesitates but the dam is broken. He buries his face in Sylvain’s neck and clings, his arms wrapping around Sylvain, grasping and vice-like. Sylvain’s collar is immediately wet. Here’s the Felix Sylvain remembers. The one he missed before he ever left. Glenn always called him a crybaby and Rodrigue never knew how to handle his sensitivity, but Sylvain has only ever wanted to swaddle him tight, to keep him protected from the cruel, cold world.

He shifts his arm to stroke against Felix’s hair. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers again, pressed into the crown of Felix’s head, “I promise, I never wanted to leave you.”

“You did.”

Sylvain closes his eyes and exhales. It doesn’t offer any relief from the truth. He failed to shield Felix. There was the only thing Sylvain was ever good for, and he failed miserably at it. “I did.”

Felix sniffles, wet and endearingly gross. Sylvain runs his fingers through Felix’s ponytail, shushes him in a soothing undertone. He’s here now. For how long, he can’t say. But he doesn’t ever want to let Felix go.

“I was afraid you’d forget me,” Felix whispers, barely audible, his lips shaping their words against Sylvain’s throat.

Sylvain runs a hand through Felix’s hand and tilts his head up, holding him by the cheek. “I could never forget you.”

Felix inhales. “Don’t leave me,” he commands, sharp and stern, far too put together for someone who was crying only moments before. It’s almost impressive how demanding he sounds. Sylvain wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I won’t,” Sylvain promises. There’s a lie tangled in his words that sits heavy on his tongue, burning like acid. He swallows it down. Sylvain’s impending death is a problem for later.

“You better not,” Felix says. It’s as much a threat as it is a plea. His gaze hardens with determination. For a brief moment, Felix is poised in Sylvain’s arms, tightly coiled, ready for an attack. He surges up to crush his mouth against Sylvain’s.

The kiss is wet and cold and perfect, marred only by the salt of Felix’s tears. Sylvain’s eyes slide shut and he kisses back, more sure of this moment than he’s been of anything else in his life. He tempers Felix’s passion with sweetness and longing, newly found after years of having been buried away. It’s one of the sloppiest and least coherent kisses of Sylvain’s life. There’s not a doubt in his mind that it’s also the best.

Eventually, and unfortunately, Felix has to come up for air. He pulls back from Sylvain, cheeks pink and eyes bright enough to glimmer. His ponytail has askew from where Sylvain’s hands made their way into Felix’s hair. He’s so beautiful.

Sylvain leans in to find Felix’s lips again, but Felix holds up a hand between them.

“Let’s—let’s go back,” Felix says, gasping and breathless. “I need you, but not here. Just need—-just need you.”

Sylvain’s heart leaps to his throat. Yes. He needs that too.

He sneaks in a quick—or not so quick—sequel to their first kiss before standing. “Please,” he begs, pulling Felix to his feet.

“Just you,” Felix repeats, his eyes wide enough to swallow Sylvain whole.

“Just you,” Sylvain breathes back, a vow stronger than he can keep.

—

Amber and gold, overwhelming and bright, stare at him, posed inches from his face. Sylvain blinks, slow, confused. He fights the fog of sleep and loses, all too ready to fall back into the blissful grasp of oblivion.

Felix clicks his tongue and drops his head down, pressing his face into the crook of Sylvain’s neck.

Sylvain is dead or dreaming. The jury’s out on which.

“Good morning,” Sylvain slurs, still bleary.

“It’s late.”

Sylvain gives up on keeping his eyes open. Better to let the fantasy claim him if he’s asleep anyway. “Is it?”

“It’s almost 10. Should have gone for my run three hours ago.”

“No, no, stay with me,” Sylvain protests, wrapping his arm around Felix’s waist, holding him in place.

He smiles as his hand brushes across Felix’s skin, blissfully naked and still sleep-warm. He lets it come to a rest just low enough to entertain the idea of squeezing Felix’s ass. A noise of surprise escapes Felix’s throat, but he doesn’t slap Sylvain’s hand away.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Felix says. The roll of his eyes is audible.

“Good. That’s good. Don’t leave.”

“Idiot,” Felix whispers, so quiet and fond that Sylvain is sure he imagines it.

Sylvain dozes, drifting in and out, half-aware of Felix’s restless shifting. He’s almost forced to wake when Felix digs an elbow into Sylvain’s sternum, reaching across him toward the nightstand. He winces when Felix pokes into the hollow of his throat, just barely avoiding a choked cough. He’s finally forced to open his eyes when Felix rolls away, taking the heat and comfort of the morning with him.

The illusion was too nice to last. At least Sylvain enjoyed it while he could.

“Finally leaving?” he asks, his voice a scratchy croak.

Felix pauses. “Have to go,” he grumbles. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Besides, not all of us can afford to waste the day lazing around in bed.”

“But it’s so nice and soft, and you look hot without clothes on.”

Felix doesn’t miss that Sylvain’s eyes are drifting shut again. “You can’t even see me.”

“Mm, but I’m remembering it.”

“Lech.”

“You weren’t saying that when I had my—”

A pillow smacks Sylvain in the face. He squawks and sits up, batting the offending item away. Felix glares at him from the foot of the bed, bright red and still very much undressed. Sylvain lets his eyes wander south, humming appreciatively as he traces down Felix’s abs and toward the bite marks dotting his thighs.

Felix yanks the covers back from Sylvain and pulls them up protectively in front of his torso. It’s far less successful at hiding him than he thinks it is. Sylvain doesn’t miss how Felix’s breath hitches as they drag away and leave Sylvain on display.

“Get up,” Felix snarls, unable to hold Sylvain’s gaze. He talks at the headboard. “I have to leave in less than two hours.”

Sylvain watches him, puzzled. “Where are you going?”

“Paris.” Felix frowns. “Didn’t I say that last night?”

Sylvain remembers a talk about Dimitri and a lot of moaning after that, but Paris doesn’t ring any sort of bell. “No.”

“Oh. Thought I did.” Felix jerks his head, noncommittal. “We’re going to Paris. The old man has France planned as the next part of his ridiculous tour. Train leaves at 2 pm.” He grunts. “Glenn just texted to remind me. Also sent me an eggplant emoji. Fucker.”

“I see,” Sylvain says, shoulders sagging. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stares at the floor. He feels like a fool for having wasted the one morning Felix didn’t run away. Of course he isn’t staying. “Well, I hope you have fun.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you coming along?”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You followed us to Zürich. Are you saying you’re not going to do the same with Paris?”

There’s a challenge in Felix’s voice. Sylvain latches on to it, a lifeline. “Are you saying you want me to?”

Felix’s mouth snaps closed and he turns away, sharp and sudden. He walks in jerky steps toward where his clothes are scattered on the floor, and he bends to pick them up. He mutters something unintelligible.

Sylvain stares at him. “Uh… sorry?”

Felix roughly tugs on his underwear. “I _said_ ,” he hisses, addressing his pants, “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

Sylvain’s grin stretches wide, and he laughs, sudden and gleeful. “If you want me to go with you, you should just ask.”

“Shut up,” Felix mutters, and he pulls his rumpled shirt on. “I take it back, you can stay here and rot. I’ll see you back in the States.”

No, he won’t. This is Sylvain’s only chance to be with Felix.

“No—wait, I’ll go, too. Of course I’ll go with you to Paris.”

Felix glances at him. “Good.” He goes back to his clothes.

Too bad Sylvain has other ideas. They still have two hours before the train. Sylvain stands and walks up to Felix, grabbing his wrist. He pulls him backward toward the bathroom.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Felix asks, wary, clutching tight to his socks.

“We’ve got time,” Sylvain says as he spins them around, crowding Felix into the bathroom. “Besides, we fell asleep right after sex last night. Don’t you want to take a shower before getting dressed?”

Felix’s breath hitches as his back hits the sink. He looks conflicted, his pupils blown wide and the hand holding the socks rising tentatively. After a moment, he throws the socks away. He grabs Sylvain by the hair, pulling him in until they’re only a breath apart. “Fine. You better not make us late.”

And then he drags Sylvain into a biting kiss, as passionate and perfect as the countless ones of the night before.

—

The train ride’s four hours and change pass at a snail’s pace. Mountainous European countryside drifts lazily past, beautiful and breathtaking, but lightyears too far from their destination and from Felix. Sylvain was only able to find a last-minute seat in a rear car, at the opposite end from where the Fraldariuses are riding.

Without Felix next to him—siphoning his ability to think, rendering him incapable of anything other than immeasurable joy—Sylvain’s only company is the clamor of his thoughts. They echo, discordant.

What is he doing? What does he gain by chasing Felix across the continent?

Sure, the sex is great, and there’s something comforting about reviving an old flame, but he only has a handful of months to live at best. He’s not going to keep the promise he made to Felix last night. Even if Sylvain doesn’t want to leave, he won’t have a choice. It’ll be a betrayal deeper than anything that happened eleven years ago. He’s having his one last hurrah, but at the risk of betraying the one of the few people he’s never wanted to hurt.

Maybe he can still leave. It’ll hurt less if Sylvain vanishes now, cauterize the wound of disappointment early. He can get off the train in Paris and vanish into the crowd. He’ll do what he was supposed to and live his last days in wild revelry, free of attachment. It’ll be better for both of them.

Sylvain’s phone buzzes.

> **Felix** : how’s it back there

Sylvain’s heart clenches. He can’t stop himself from smiling. It’s no small miracle that Felix actually texted him first.

Sylvain finds himself halfway through sending a reply before he realizes what he’s doing. Talking to Felix, reaching out to him, clinging to the scraps of his affection—it’s automatic. Always has been. Eleven years of distance doesn’t change that. Now that he has a sliver of that again, it would never be enough to simply disappear.

So he won’t.

That unfortunately means he has something important to confess to Felix. It can wait until they get to Paris at least. It wouldn’t be fair to say something like this over text.

> **Me** : okay i guess
> 
> **Me** : wish the trains back home were more like this
> 
> **Me** : see you soon? <3
> 
> **Felix** : yeah, see you

Sylvain turns and stares out the window, both anticipating and dreading the appearance of Paris on the horizon.

—

Felix isn’t waiting for Sylvain on the platform when they arrive in Paris. His family has to check into their hotel, unfortunately. Felix doesn’t know why Rodrigue can’t do it by himself, but it’s a _family event_. He’ll find Sylvain later. Sylvain should look up steakhouses in the meantime.

Sylvain laughs, and the knot in his chest loosens slightly. This is good, probably. He has a few hours before he has to figure out what to say to Felix. He needs that time. He didn’t manage to come up with anything on the ride over.

It’s easy enough to find a hotel with an open room near the Gare de Lyon. It’s also easy to pin down a list of restaurants that don’t require reservations that Felix might like. It’s less easy spending the next hour staring at his phone, waiting for Felix to tell him that he’s available.

It’s nigh impossible to plan the words for telling Felix that he’s months or weeks from dying. Ironic, given Sylvain’s penchant for joking about death at all the most inopportune moments. Maybe the inability to find the right words is deterioration caused by the tumor. Hell if Sylvain knows.

In the end, he’s saved from needing to say anything, at least for tonight.

> **Felix** : rodrigue’s inviting you to eat with us
> 
> **Felix** : you don’t have to, but i can’t get out of it

It’s the coward’s way out to see this as salvation. No one’s ever accused Sylvain of being brave.

> **Me** : i’d love to
> 
> **Me** : where should i meet you?

—

Dinner is nice, if awkward.

There’s a long moment as Sylvain arrives where Glenn and Felix have a silent staring contest over whether Sylvain is allowed to sit next to Felix. It resolves with Felix shoving Sylvain into a chair and dropping down next to him. He glares defiantly up at his brother. Rodrigue breaks the silence by coughing pointedly into his menu.

It’s a small mercy that Rodrigue is too polite to ask Sylvain any of the probing questions that dance loudly on the tips of his and Glenn’s tongues. He hears the questions anyway. How’s New York City? Where’s the Gautier family now? How dare Sylvain sully their darling youngest?

Sylvain’s pretty sure that it’s only because of a few well-timed kicks from Felix that Glenn doesn’t ask him anything of importance. Instead, the conversation stays safe, Glenn and Felix sniping at each other about who got the larger cut of meat in their identical dinner orders and mulling over upcoming Taekwondo tournament broadcasts they’ll have to catch. It’s incredibly mundane and domestic, and it leaves a dull ache in Sylvain’s chest. It’s the closest thing he’s had to a family dinner in eleven years. He forgot they could be anything more than just something to get through.

The meal ends with Sylvain fighting with Rodrigue over the bill—even if Sylvain can’t say it aloud, he _really_ doesn’t have anything better to do with his money—and Felix tugging him away by the elbow the moment they step outside the restaurant. He’s not even going the right way. Sylvain gets him to slow down and turn around once Glenn and Rodrigue are out of sight.

Finally alone, the earlier question of the truth comes back. He owes that much to Felix. He can’t avoid it forever.

But then Felix reels him in for a kiss on a darkened street corner, and Sylvain promptly forgets about anything that’s not the feel of Felix’s arms as they wrap around Sylvain’s neck or the taste of Felix’s tongue against his.

It’s fine, Sylvain argues with himself. One more night won’t make a difference.

—

In a true holiday miracle, Felix sleeps in. He looks peaceful next to Sylvain, his face half-buried in the pillow and his arm thrown across Sylvain’s chest. The line of his shoulders rise and fall, slow, steady, serene.

Sylvain gives in to impulse and brushes his hand through the hair spilling across Felix’s face, drawing it back behind Felix’s ear. Felix is relaxed in sleep, his cheeks soft and his frown gone, for once free of his usual severe lines. He looks years younger and centuries more innocent. Sylvain is guilty of having played his part in aging Felix beyond his years.

He knows that now.

And he has to do it again.

It would be so easy to play at normalcy. To keep the good thing they have going, no need to ruin it. Maybe Sylvain doesn’t need to confess anything. Maybe he has enough time to fade back into the cityscape and out of Felix’s memories. A disappointing way to go, for sure, but who’s to say they’ll even stay in contact once this week of fantasy is over? No need to ruin the vacation now.

Except—it’s a lie, and Felix is one of the few people Sylvain has never wanted to lie to.

As if sensing Sylvain’s inner turmoil, Felix shuffles closer, his face now pressed fully into Sylvain’s shoulder. It’s almost unbearable how sweet he is like this, cuddling and just shy of clingy. Sylvain drops a kiss against Felix’s forehead. Felix scrunches his nose in response, and Sylvain chuckles quietly.

“Your thoughts are too loud,” Felix grumbles, his voice thick with sleep and his eyes determinedly closed. “Make them shut up.”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“I know, and I can hear them anyway. Be quieter.”

Sylvain snorts. “I’ll try.”

Felix doesn’t reply, and his breathing evens out again. Sylvain strokes Felix’s hair, running his fingers through it loosely, fidgeting with the dry, split ends. He wraps his other arm tight around Felix, grounds himself with Felix’s weight digging into his ribs. They’re real and alive, both of them, if only in this moment.

Eventually, Sylvain closes his eyes, once more unable to find the words to tell Felix the truth. Sleep stays out of reach, chased away by the betrayal poised on the tip of Sylvain’s tongue.

—

“You were being weird earlier,” Felix says later, after they finally get up, as he’s tying his hair up into a loose ponytail. It’s too messy to be artfully disheveled. Sylvain immediately wants to ruin it. “Why?”

Sylvain flinches. He turns away from Felix, crouching to dig through his suitcase for clean briefs. “Maybe I just wanted to cuddle a bit. Nothing’s wrong. Why would you say that?”

“I didn’t,” Felix says, now irritated. He walks into Sylvain’s line of sight. “You’re still being weird. What’s going on?”

“What isn’t going on,” Sylvain mutters before he can stop himself.

“What?” Felix snaps, sharp.

Sylvain closes his eyes. Focus. You’re fine. Not dead yet. Stop obsessing over it. Everyone dies eventually.

The annoying, nagging voice in his head screams at him to fucking get it over over with. He ignores it.

“Nothing. Nothing’s going on. Nothing’s wrong.”

Silence.

Sylvain glances up at Felix. It’s the wrong thing to do. Felix is squinting down at him, critical, his nostrils flaring. Sylvain gets to his feet, abandoning his search for clean clothing. His height advantage levels the playing field somewhat. Even with Felix’s chin tilted upward, Sylvain feels small. He fights the urge to shrink back in the knowledge that Felix is right.

He should stop, turn back, find safe purchase. Dig through himself until he can unearth a smoothed edge. There’s enough in there that can play at being kind. It’s still possible to dredge up that well-worn facade.

He doesn’t. He grins, mean, the corners of his mouth pinned in place by spite. It would be adorable that Felix thinks he can change anything if it weren’t also so sad.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

There’s a beat as they both process what Sylvain’s said. Felix hisses, eyes flashing, “What the fuck is your problem?”

All at once, Felix is in Sylvain’s face, furious and burning. He glares up, defiant. Righteous anger rolls off him in waves. Not surprising. Felix was never able to hold back his emotions.

Sylvain leers down, sweet and false. “Like I said! No problem. It’s touching that you’re worried, though, really.”

He trails a teasing hand through a loose strand of Felix’s hair. It’s slapped away.

”Cut the bullshit. Something’s been making you fidgety since last night. I know—” Felix exhales, rough, “I know I’m not the best with emotions, but—I know you. Spit it out. I don’t have time for you to lie to my face.”

Sylvain laughs, hollow, incredulous. “ _You_ don’t have time?”

A frown flickers across Felix’s face. “No, I don’t. Not for whatever game you’re playing.”

“Oh, it’s a game now, is it?”

Felix scowls, unsure. Hurt flickers across his expression and he takes an unsteady step backward. His arms are tight across his chest.

“This is so like you. You only have time when something hurts _you_. Everything else is a game. No one else could ever have it as rough as you.” The words sting as they fall out, unbidden. He advances on Felix.

“What the fuck are you going on about? I literally asked you what’s wrong.”

“You don’t get it. You’ve never gotten it.” Sylvain’s smile is a wound, bleeding across his face. “How can you possibly know me, all these years later? What’s there to know about a dead man?”

“What—”

“It’s not like it matters.” His stomach twists into a Gordian Knot. He tastes acid, burning and corrosive. “I mean, how can it?”

“ _What_ —”

“I’m going to be dead in—I don’t know, a couple weeks? A month? Two, definitely. None of this is going to mean anything for either of us by February. I’ll be a corpse, and you’ll get back to your real life. It’ll be like none of this ever happened, and you can be on your merry, little way.”

The pounding rush of blood is loud in Sylvain’s ears, fast and unrelenting. Felix is frozen in front of him, eyes wide, vibrating with fury, half-hidden by shadow where he’s been backed into the hotel room’s entryway.

“What do you mean,” Felix says, low and barely controlled, “you’ll be dead?”

“I’ll be dead. I’m dying. Pretty sure there aren’t many definitions for that word.”

“You’re—” Felix’s words fail him and he gapes, his jaw working soundlessly. It should be almost cute, but irritation boils red-hot in Sylvain’s gut. How many times is he going to have to repeat himself? “You’re—”

“Dying. Yep!” Funny how it doesn’t get any easier to say. “Brain cancer. Inoperable. It’s going to kill me, and soon.” He laughs, harsh. “Really, who would have thought _this_ would be what made me kick the bucket? I know my bet would have been on STDs or alcohol poisoning.”

“You’re—you’re dying.”

“Congratulations, you heard me.” Sylvain’s grin widens painfully. Its mocking edge cuts back against him.

“You’re dying,” Felix repeats, this time more sure, and cold fury returns to his voice. It’s devastatingly attractive. “And—what? You weren’t going to talk about it? You weren’t going to tell me?”

“It was going to come up eventually.”

“When you were _dead_?”

Sylvain turns away, a trickle of shame creeping down his spine. “No,” he denies, only half a lie. “I was—I was planning on telling you.”

“When, exactly? Today? Tomorrow? At the end of this trip?” Felix blinks and his expression hardens. “No—this is why you’ve been acting strange, isn’t it? You learned about this and you’ve been trying to hide it.”

Sylvain laughs, scornful. “Something like that.”

“Don’t give me that shit! Why didn’t you just fucking _say_ something? Even if it is true, it doesn’t have to change anything.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it—”

“How about this then,” Sylvain cuts in, “I’ve known for over a week now. Since before I got to Europe. It’s why I’m taking this trip. It’s a send-off to myself, while I still can. If I’m going to die, might as well have some fun on the way out. No strings attached, quick and dirty. If I’m going to kick it, I’m not going to be miserable and chained to a bed.”

Felix looks at Sylvain, the line of his mouth hard. He speaks after a long moment, quiet, deadly. “Is that what this is to you? Fun? A fling?”

It’s not, but—

“I mean, what else is it? Kind of hard to make any meaningful connections when I’m going to croak at any moment.”

Felix’s expression shutters. “I see.” He turns away and finishes dressing in silence.

Sylvain watches, frozen. The high of his anger fades quickly, leaving behind dread.

This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. He could have explained, could have begged for Felix to stay with him anyway, could have done something right for once.

But Sylvain is as much a cancer as the cells breaking down his brain. The pain he inflicts is just him metastasizing. He should have let Felix go back in Bern. Cauterized himself before he could bleed poison and taint the atmosphere.

He can’t keep himself from making things worse, even now. Felix has one shoe on by the time Sylvain moves. He blocks the door before he can even think about what he’s doing.

Sylvain holds out his hands, placating. “Wait—Felix, I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean any of that.”

“Yes, you did.” Felix tries to shove him out of the way.

“No! Never, not with you.”

“Do _not_ fucking lie to me. I’ve had it with your bullshit.”

Sylvain scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I’m not lying. What I said was out of line, it’s just—it’s been a lot, okay? Knowing that you’re dying isn’t exactly sunshine and daisies.”

“So your choice is to inflict that on others. How kind.”

“I’m not trying to _inflict_ anything. Maybe I’m not dealing super well, so sorry! Didn’t know that was so bad.”

“Deal however you want, don’t bring me down with you.” Felix says as he moves to leave again. He gets as far as cracking the door open.

Sylvain pushes it closed. “Don’t leave,” he says. It sounds like begging.

“Why shouldn’t I? You left all those years ago and you were going to do it again.”

“That wasn’t my choice—neither of those were my choice.”

Sylvain’s heart races, desperate. Felix has to believe him, he has to know. For all the distance they’ve gained over the years, that would never change.

“You could have chosen to be honest, both then and now. You could have chosen not to use me.”

“I’m not—I didn’t. Felix. You know I wouldn’t.”

Felix’s eyes are dull and he turns away, tired and small. “You did. You said, not five minutes ago, that this is just meaningless fun, that none of it matters.”

Sylvain wants it to. So much. More than Felix will ever know.

He smiles sadly. “I mean, it doesn’t. Not really. How I feel about it—how I feel about _you_ , it’ll just be a memory.”

Felix is close enough to touch, small enough that Sylvain wants nothing more than to wrap him in his arms—but he doesn’t. He’ll be a memory soon. And now he’s tainted even that.

“You’d choose to leave again.”

“I’m not choosing anything. What I said the other night—I never wanted to leave you. Not then, not now. You have to believe me.”

Felix opens the door again, the doorknob rattling slightly as he shakes. This time, Sylvain doesn’t try to close it. “I don’t know that I can.”

“Please, Felix, _please_. I’m so—I’m so sorry.”

Felix pauses. “I am too.”

The click of the door behind him is far heavier than the news of Sylvain’s cancer ever was.

—

The day passes, eerily empty, with nothing to look forward to. Sylvain’s fingers itch to reach for his phone, to apologize once more—but there’s nothing left to say. Sylvain’s dying, and he’s letting his death hurt the people he might have once loved. Felix couldn’t stand to be left behind again, so he walked away first.

Sylvain has to live with the choices they made. It’s not as though he has long to dwell on it.

—

In the morning, Sylvain scrolls mindlessly through recommended Parisian tourist spots, skimming for anything he hasn’t visited before. Most straddle the line between snobby and manufactured, and he passes over them without a second thought. He ultimately discards his search—too much seasonal sugar, too much false cheer—and settles on the Louvre. The art museum is guaranteed to pick up his mood. Might as well say goodbye to the Mona Lisa while he has the chance. She’s one lady who won’t ever disappoint him.

He has one arm in his coat when someone knocks, three heavy raps, at the door.

“Hello?” Sylvain calls out, opening it.

Glenn stands in front of him, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. Behind him, Felix sulks. He’s not wearing the earrings today, for the first time since Sylvain ran into him in Bern.

This certainly isn’t how Sylvain imagined starting the day. “Hi, Glenn. Felix,” he says, uneasy. He glances at Felix. Felix ignores him. “Can I help you?”

“I told you I would crush your balls if you hurt Felix again, and as much as I’d like to, that can wait. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but I refuse to deal with his,” Glenn jabs a thumb over his shoulder, “tantrum any longer. Yesterday was more than enough. I’m not on vacation to babysit. Work it out.”

He turns on his heel, muttering about “brats”, and heads toward the elevator. Felix makes to follow him.

“Don’t you dare, Felix,” Glenn says without looking back. Felix halts, but glares at his brother’s back, mutinous. “You can come back when you’re done being a baby.”

“I am _not_ a baby.”

“Whatever you say, baby brother.” Glenn makes a shooing motion over his shoulder as he calls the elevator. It dings and the doors open, sweeping him away. In moments, he’s gone, leaving Sylvain and Felix behind to avoid each other’s eyes. To call the silence awkward would be an understatement.

Sylvain coughs. “Do you—do you want to come in?”

Felix turns his glare on him. “Do I look like I want to come in?”

“Right—okay.”

He finishes pulling on his coat and tugs the door shut behind him. He fidgets with his sleeves and smiles at Felix, unsure.

Felix lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “There’s a cafe by the hotel entrance. You can buy me a coffee.”

“Yeah, whatever you want. Lead the way.”

Felix rolls his eyes and walks down the hall. “If we were doing whatever I wanted, I wouldn’t be here,” he says, as though it’s not abundantly clear.

Sylvain follows, ghost-like, his footsteps as light as possible.

Once downstairs, Felix orders his black coffee brusquely and hunkers down at a table by the window, arms and legs crossed. He stares blankly into the street. Sylvain is left to wait to pick up their orders, and he attempts, half-hearted and with atrocious French, to flirt with a barista as he waits. He earns an eyeroll for his effort.

Coffee in hand, Sylvain sits silently across from Felix and waits. Felix doesn’t look at him, but he sips from his cup periodically.

Sylvain gives up after maybe seven minutes. “So,” he says.

“What,” Felix says, still not looking at him.

“Are we just going to sit here, or are we going to talk?”

“I don’t know,” Felix throws back, “are we?”

Sylvain sips his latte. “I’d like to.”

“I have nothing to say to you. From what you said yesterday, you have nothing left to say to me either.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Hmph.”

He tries to catch Felix’s gaze, but he’s still scowling out the window. “I guess I should—” he clears his throat, “I should apologize again.”

Nothing.

“I was way out of line. I’ve been having—I’ve had a rough couple weeks, and I took that out on you. I shouldn’t have done that. So… I’m sorry.” Sylvain’s chest is a balloon, taut, ready to pop. Emotions writhe across its surface.

Felix clicks his tongue.

The balloon collapses, pricked by Felix’s callous dismissal. Sylvain doesn’t deserve Felix’s forgiveness, but he hoped to have it anyway. He fumbles his words, desperate to latch on to the right ones. “I—Look, I know I said a lot of things yesterday. But you know me. You know I care about you.”

Felix sneers. “I do know you. You were always like this, too ready to play with other people’s hearts. Always moments from throwing them away.”

“I…” Sylvain trails off.

Felix is right. There’s a Molotov Cocktail brewing inside Sylvain, bottled hate and resentment. Its stench leaks like leftover gas, ready to ignite at the smallest flame. Jealousy, selfishness, cruelty. Use the others before they could use him. Isn’t that why the world decided to discard him in the first place?

Sylvain brings his hands to his forehead and exhales. “It’s not like that. Not with you.”

“How many people have you said that to?”

Sylvain winces. Felix has him there. “Okay, a lot, but—I never meant it before, with them.”

“Am I supposed to believe that you mean it now?” Felix is glaring at Sylvain full-on now. It’s hot enough to scald.

Empty platitudes mean nothing with Felix; they fuel his loathing. Only the truth has a chance, and even that’s been squandered, lost among all the bile Sylvain spewed yesterday. He has to drop what’s left of the facades, lose the lies.

Sylvain breathes, uneven and unsteady. Felix watches him from across the table, his arms still tight across his chest.

It’s hard to find the right thing to say, stripped bare of his pretenses. Who is Sylvain without pretty words and flashy smiles? He’s never had anything below the surface. It was true when they were kids, and it was even truer when they met again in Bern. For whatever reason, Felix gave him a second chance. He has no right to a third. He’ll beg for one anyway.

Sylvain’s voice is low and rough when he finally manages to speak. “I’ve always meant it, with you.”

Felix’s eyes widen and he looks away sharply. “How can I trust anything you say?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” Sylvain laughs, self-deprecating. “How does anyone trust anything?”

“That’s comforting,” Felix snarks, but without the vitriol from before. The sharp lines of his face soften slightly. Sylvain breathes out, relieved.

“Isn’t it?” Sylvain says. Felix lets out a light snort and shakes his head as he gulps down the last of his coffee. Sylvain pushes on, wringing his words for every last drop of honesty, “But—I know this. Out of everyone, it was always easiest to trust you. I’m shit at telling the truth and donkey balls are keeping things honest, but you’ve never been. I always liked that about you.”

Felix blinks and a flush spreads across his cheeks. “Don’t try that drivel with me.”

“It’s the truth. You always wore your heart on your sleeve and didn’t hold back when telling people what you thought of them, and I needed that. You reminded me that there were things that were real. You still do.”

Felix makes an affronted noise. “We didn’t see each other for eleven years.”

“I told you, didn’t I? I thought about you all the time. Not every day, after a while, but a lot. Too much, even though I wasn’t supposed to. I missed you.”

Felix’s eyes are saucers. He’s frozen, shoulders hunched, curled even more protectively than before. Sylvain wants so badly to reach out and stroke Felix’s cheek, to take Felix’s hand, to thaw the anger Felix is so desperately and so rightfully clinging to.

Sylvain holds himself back and says, “When I saw you again, it was a chance I thought I’d never get again. I had to take it, even if I only ended up wasting your time. I wasn’t really thinking.” He chuckles, scornful. “I mean, when do I ever? I just knew that I wanted to stay by your side for the time I have left, no matter how short. I didn’t let myself worry about anything else.”

“Maybe you should have,” Felix says, and Sylvain offers him a weak grimace. It’s too late for that now. They’re both trapped in the knowledge of what Sylvain should have done better. Felix unwinds his arms and exhales, heavy. “There’s no reason for it and I don’t want to, but—I know you’re telling the truth.”

“I swear, I am. I never wanted to hurt you.” Sylvain can’t make any guarantees about anyone else, but he’s never claimed to be perfect. There’s only one person he’s ever cared this much about protecting.

“After how the last eleven years have gone and what you said yesterday, you’ll understand why I find that hard to believe.” Felix crushes his empty cup in his hand, shaking slightly. “There’s—there’s a weak, insidious part of me that thinks you’re trustworthy. A worthy ally, a worthy lov— _friend_. I should reject this, but I… I don’t want to.”

Sylvain hears the slip-up, but he doesn’t call Felix on it. He’ll take the tenuous offer of friendship. It would be unfair and too much like his worst instincts to ask for more, especially this late in the game. The sex is good, but it doesn’t mean they have to let feelings involved get even messier.

“Then don’t.”

“You’re going to leave again,” Felix says, quiet, with a tired finality.

“Yeah, I am,” Sylvain says, equally resigned, “but we can make the best of the time we have, right? You were thinking about that before I really shoved my foot in my mouth yesterday.”

Felix studies him. “Maybe,” he concedes.

“I’ll take maybe. I can work with maybe.”

“It’s only a maybe,” Felix says, reflexive and defensive. His scowl is back, but in that cute way that Sylvain can never get enough of. It would be so easy to reach across and teasingly smooth the creases between his eyebrows.

“Whatever you want,” Sylvain says, leaning in to prop his chin on his hand.

Felix looks away and shields his face. “Fuck off. I haven’t forgiven you yet.” Sylvain represses a laugh. God, Felix’s blush is adorable.

“I know. I wasn’t expecting you to.” Sylvain hasn’t earned it anyway. He nods to the door. “But since we don’t have much time, want to get out of here?”

“I just said I haven’t forgiven you. We are _not_ going back upstairs to—”

“I wasn’t suggesting that, but I wouldn’t be opposed,” Sylvain says, laughing as he stands. “No, I was planning on heading out to the Louvre, before you and Glenn showed up, if you’re interested in that. I know art was never really your thing, so we can go somewhere else if—”

“It’s fine,” Felix cuts in, also rising, “I don’t care.” He’s luminescent, his entire face bright pink. Maybe embarrassed at having been caught out thinking about sex? Either way, it’s a good look.

“You sure?”

“As long as we don’t stay too long.”

“We can do that,” Sylvain says, soft.

He offers Felix his hand. It’s definitely asking for too much, but Felix rolls his eyes and threads their fingers together anyway. Sylvain’s heart leaps to his throat and he tucks their hands into his pocket. Felix discards his used coffee cup and lets Sylvain lead him back to the counter to return his half-emptied mug.

Once outside, Sylvain gives Felix’s hand a squeeze. “Anything you want, Felix.”

Felix glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Only one thing. Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

—

They’re three galleries and about a dozen snide remarks from Felix into visiting the Louvre when Sylvain’s phone rings, loud and insistent. He silences it immediately, but not before getting a few scathing glares from the other patrons of the museum. As soon as it’s quiet, it starts again, and Sylvain winces as he pulls out his phone to figure out who the fuck is calling him at such an early hour back in New York on a Sunday.

The number isn’t one he recognizes as his parents or Miklan, but it does have a New York area code. It’s tempting to write it off as spam and end call again. So he does.

They make it as far as the next room before the ringing starts again and Sylvain growls.

“Do you need to take that?” Felix says, amused. Sylvain can hear the hope in his voice, creeping in and digging for an excuse to leave.

“Probably,” Sylvain says, stopping to throw a sharp grin at the stodgy, old couple whispering and pointing in their direction. “Want to head out, and I can take this outside?”

“Sure.” Felix sounds entirely too pleased, but Sylvain lets it slide.

They’re still far from the Mona Lisa, so Sylvain won’t get to say his goodbyes to her. He’ll have to be satisfied that Felix was willing to put up with a little over an hour of museum time. It’ll be time for lunch soon anyway.

Sylvain mutes his ringtone and follows Felix out. On vibrate, the calls are only slightly less annoying. Seriously, _who_ needs to talk to him this much? Even his mother has restrained herself to texting over the years. She keeps a stringent beauty routine that revolves around Sundays, so it’s unlikely that she’s one dialing him in the first place. It’s not impossible that it’s Miklan on a burner, but he’s more likely to leave veiled threats in Sylvain’s voicemail than call back repeatedly. Sylvain’s father would have his secretary call, and Sylvain has that number blocked.

Two more rounds of buzzes later and they’ve made their way back outside. The plaza is emptier than when they entered, with the clusters of tourists mostly dispersed. Felix steps away, pulling out his own phone as he mutters something about texting Glenn. Sylvain’s eye twitches as he scrolls through the five missed calls, all from the same number. With a scoff, he taps the top one to call back.

It rings only once before being picked up.

“Hello?” Sylvain says, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. This really better not fucking be spam.

“Hi, is this Sylvain Gautier?” The woman’s voice is vaguely familiar and all too calm for having called him five times in a row. Sylvain’s pretty sure she’s not one of his exes, not least because he would have blocked her number by now if she was.

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is Dr. Li.” Sylvain frowns. His primary care physician? Why?

“Uh, is everything okay?”

“I wanted to call to let you know that we were informed that the lab tech who was handling your scan was under-trained and not properly using the equipment. We were also notified by the servicing company that our software is out of date and may be returning incorrect conversions. The diagnosis you were given last week is likely faulty and we’d like to schedule you to come back as soon as possible so we can do a second scan with the corrections.”

It takes several tries for Sylvain to get his jaw to work. “Sorry—run that by me again?”

“We’d like to schedule for another CT scan to follow up with the previous one. The previous diagnosis was likely incorrect.” Dr. Li’s voice is neutral, but he can hear an edge of exasperation in it.

“Wait, so does that mean I don’t have brain cancer?”

“A glioblastoma. And no, probably not.”

“Shit.”

She laughs. Sylvain’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s ever heard her not sound like a robot. “Yeah. That’s why I wanted to get in contact with you. I know it’s rather early in the day and a weekend, but the sooner we can schedule you, the sooner we can be sure of what’s going on.”

“About that—I, ah, might be in Europe right now?”

Sylvain hadn’t even bought a return flight. Realistically, he was only going to stay around for at most another week, but since this was going to be his last holiday, he planned on letting the wind take him where it would. Now, he actually needs a return plan. It’s an incredibly strange thought. He’s not sure how to feel about it.

“That should be okay. Let me put you in contact with the desk so you can book something in the new year? I’ll leave them a note to call you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Sylvain says, still numb with shock. A thought occurs to him before she can bid him goodbye. “Wait—what about the headaches then?”

They were the reason Dr. Li had scheduled him for that apparently-botched CT in the first place.

“Ah, those. I suspect, Sylvain,” she says dryly, “that those were related to your occasional heavy drinking, as we originally suggested. Have you had any recently?”

Now that he’s thinking about it, no, there hasn’t been a single one this trip. He was so caught up with chasing Felix’s attention that he completely forgot to track his headaches like Dr. Li told him to. To be fair, he hadn’t thought it was necessary, given the impending death and all.

“Well—no.”

“As I thought. If that’s everything, I’ll let you get back to your vacation. Have a good day.” She hangs up.

“Thanks,” Sylvain says, way too late. The only response is his phone’s dial tone. He remembers to pull the phone away, fumbling and unsteady, and to shove it into his pocket.

Sylvain inhales, sharp. He focuses on breathing, in and out, taking in the burn of the crisp, winter air as it hits his lungs. It’s futile to try to quell the trembling in his limbs.

It’s not cancer. Probably. At least, they don’t think he’s going to die.

If that’s not some kind of fucked-up Christmas miracle, he doesn’t know what it is. He’s getting his own Christmas Carol, except with all the bullshit with the ghosts skipped.

Sylvain laughs, loud and uncontrollable. He doubles over, holding his gut. There might be tears at the corners of his eyes. He sure as shit doesn’t know. The only thing he feels is gasping relief, shaking through his body.

He loses track of time. Somewhere between a handful of seconds and an eon passes. He’s vaguely aware of people in the plaza giving him a wide berth and discomfited stares. He gasps for breath, caught in his elation, wild and almost deranged.

He’s alive. He’s _alive_.

“What are you doing?” Felix’s voice eventually says, distant and pointed, pulling him back to reality. He’s staring down at Sylvain, frowning and concerned.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, his voice hoarse and wretched. He crashes into Felix, crushing him to his chest.

“ _What_ —”

“Felix,” Sylvain says again, and this time his hands find their way up to cup Felix’s cheeks, tilting him upward. There’s a remote part of Sylvain’s brain yelling that kissing Felix is a bad idea, but he ignores it.

Felix makes a muffled noise of protest as Sylvain’s lips find his, but the complaint is quickly swallowed as Sylvain reels him in even closer. He threads one hand back into the base of Felix’s ponytail and nips against his lower lip, and then Felix is giving as good as he gets, biting and bruising against Sylvain’s mouth, his hands clawing almost painfully into Sylvain’s hair.

Felix is the one to pull back first, his hand planted squarely on Sylvain’s chest. He’s flushed bright and panting, as out of breath as Sylvain feels and so dazzling he eclipses the sun above.

“What—” Felix says, still breathing hard, “what was that.”

“I’m not dying,” Sylvain says, giddy, and he leans in for another kiss. Felix turns his head, and Sylvain’s lips end up brushing against his temple.

“What?”

“Doc said it was outdated software and a lousy tech.”

“Your doctor was the one calling you,” Felix says, flat.

“I didn’t believe it at first either.”

Felix’s eyes narrow. “This timing is incredibly suspicious.”

From a certain angle, sure. “Fortuitous, you mean.”

Felix looks at him, unconvinced. He chews on his lip for a moment before speaking. It’s all Sylvain can do not to try again for that kiss. “You were telling the truth, before and now?”

“Yeah—yes. I promise, no more lies.”

“You’re not leaving?” Felix says, awed and vulnerable, hints of the sweet child he once was peeking through. Here’s the boy Sylvain would have done anything to protect. He finally has a chance to keep his promises and do the right thing.

“No. I promise, I’m not leaving. I’m not dying.”

The smile that breaks out over Felix’s face is impossibly warm and honest, so bright that Sylvain knows he can only yearn to be the moon reflecting a sliver of Felix’s light. “You’re staying.”

“Yes, and—there’s something I need to say.” Sylvain brushes a thumb over Felix’s cheek. “I want to stay with you. Forever, if you’ll let me. I was sure of it a long time ago. I’ve been avoiding thinking about it, but now that I know I have time, I want to say it. I loved you, back when we were kids. I still loved you, even after I left. When I saw you again—I wasn’t going to call it that, but I wanted to be with you anyway.”

Felix blinks a few times. His voice is thick when he speaks. “You’re an idiot.”

Sylvain smiles down at him, soft. “I know.”

“But you’re my idiot. Now and forever. No backing out.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Felix winds his hands back into Sylvain’s hair and pushes onto his toes to meet Sylvain, and Sylvain kisses him back just as eagerly. There’s nothing in this moment or any other, stretching into the infinite future, other than the feel of Felix burned into his skin and buried in his soul.

After eleven years and a not-so-near-death experience, it tastes like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays!! Thanks for reading.
> 
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